Tuesday, December 27, 2016

May we all have the courage to be so much More

Bear with me while I try to get my ambiguous thoughts into cohesive words/ideas. So, this morning...no let me go back a little further.

So...I've been in therapy for years...over half my life pretty much...trying to "overcome." Trying to become normal...in spite of...many things. For a few years I felt like I had accomplished that. I didn't feel like I was constantly fighting to be more than my traumatic past. I was engaged in life, engaged in the present...in my heart I felt the lesson I had been presented (that I didn't have to settle...that I could have good things in my life, and my life didn't have to be about me not having needs). I just was...me.

Things happened...I found myself in old external patterns, and I reverted to old patterns of coping. The coping patterns that are relevant to this conversation, are those of assuming in dysfunctional situations that I must be the wrong one since it kept happening in my world, and feeling like I needed to be the one to fix (the un-fixable) the dysfunction.

Jumping back on this train spiraled down to the point of me completely losing my equilibrium, and getting swallowed up by that old trauma crap again. So, I got back into therapy...and I've been through several therapists...and because I'm busy repeating patterns, I stayed with therapists who weren't helping because it must be me who wasn't making it work. Recently though, I've started with a new therapist, one who Sees. Who Sees me.

In addition to being seen, I've been doing a lot of shamanic and meditation work. The seed was planted a while back that I wanted to be released from my past/my traumas. But, what does that mean to be released? It is a piece of me, right? It is what has shaped me, right? To say I want to be released is to say that I want to let go of a piece of myself...right? Or does it? If I think of it as a growth...yes something that is part of me, but something I DON'T want to be a part of me, then hell yeah, cut that shit off!

So...back to today...as I meditated on healing, being whole; I saw in a shadow corner an attachment: If I identify as the victim, or even the survivor as trauma I can easily use it (and do use it) as an excuse...for laziness, for not being "good enough", for being negative, for falling into old patterns, for mistakes, for not trying, for being stuck.

I'm kinda done with that. I want to live my life as just a person...not a trauma survivor...because for me, if I use that language, I'm kinda giving credit for the awesome shit that I have done to my victimizers. Screw that. They didn't make me. I made me. I don't need to put all of my energy into that crap anymore. I don't need to be the wounded healer, or the wounded warrior...I can just be the healer/warrior. I dig that.

It starts with focusing on the good things in my life today. With being grateful. Instead of trying not to think about the crap in my past, I instead exert my will on doing, saying, and thinking about the good in me, the good in my life, and the good I can do. And I remind myself that I am so much more than that shit. We all are.

May we all have the courage to step out of the shadows of fear, and hate. May we all have the courage to honor our True selves...and honor the True selves of others. May we all have the courage to be so much more than our past.

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

There is no "other", there is only "us"

I don't know why this story has been on my mind so much lately, but it has, so it needs to get out of my head.

So there was this guy (we'll call him "Wes") that my mom met while I was in high school, and eventually married (after, of course, he threatened to kill all of her children...but that is another story for another day) while I was college. She in Wes lived in a small town near the college town that I lived in. I didn't really care to be around drunken Wes who regularly beat my mother, but she never left his sight really, for fear of getting in trouble, so I had to go out to visit them if I wanted to see my mother.

One day when I was out for a visit, we were all sitting around the kitchen table, and glassy-eyed-drunk/drugged-up Wes was playing with his newest pistol. The farm house they rented was hot, and stuffy so my mother asked me to turn the fan on. As soon as I hat cleared my chair, "BOOM!" We all started in shock, registering what had just happened as our ears rang. My first, instantaneous thought was that he has shot my mother, and I would turn around to find her dead, a day that I had worried about almost every day since she had moved in with him.

Before I could wonder if I would be next, I turned around to survey the situation, and saw with my dilated eyes locked in tunnel vision that she, although stunned, was bullet-less.  We both looked at the smoking gun in the slack jawed Wes's hand, then visually tracked the path of the gun barrel to the hole in the wall...right behind my chair.

It turns out that had I not gotten up the instance I did, that bullet would have gone through the left side of my chest, either hitting me in the heart or the aorta. Either way it would have been a kill shot.The funny thing is; I really don't know if it was purely an accident, or if he intentionally pulled the trigger either to a) miss, but send a message to my mother about his power over her and me, or b) to simply shoot me because he was a psychotic, insecure, addict, toxic human being. Based on his behavior over the years, it every easily could have been any of the above reasons.

I share this story because it it very easy to think of violence as happening to "other" people. When I say "other", I don't just mean other than us as individuals, but as a whole "other" set of people. Like it only happens to "those" people who live in inner cities, or drug addicts, or uneducated-toothless-white trash living in the trailer park. And that sense of "other-ness" makes it easier to ignore violence against others. Whether it's domestic violence, a hate crime, sexual assault, etc it can happen to any of us. You, me, your child/mother/sibling. And when we ignore violence (whether verbal or physical), dismiss it, minimize it, or deny it we make it easier for the violence to continue. Do not tolerate intolerable behavior or actions, my friends. It is time for us all to speak up, and to act up; whether it is us, or our best friend, our neighbor who needs support...whoever needs our voice, whoever needs us to stand beside them in solidarity, let us be there. Let us be the change we wish to see in the world.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

PTSD 2.0

I've had a LOT of therapy for my PTSD. A LOT, including EMDR. Prior to EMDR, I suffered pretty heavily from intrusive memories and flashbacks, gawd awful startle reflex...like constant...like hard to function day to day.  EMDR really dampened the symptoms down, as long as I hadn't gone too long without adequate sleep, and wasn't hyper-stressed out, or currently triggered as shit.

I did have a couple years where I really felt like I had a handle on this shit...like it was just one little piece of who I am, as opposed to The Thing that overshadows all aspects of my life.  I had some glorious moments of "wow, this must be what it's like for 'normal' people." Eventually little chinks in my armor that didn't' seem like much until they all piled up, pulled me back into those old loops. Some experiences I can identify that got me off course include a couple experiences when I was doing sex offender treatment, toxic work environments that were not safe, reliving childhood dynamics of not being heard/validated/protected by those with power. Then the subsequent feeling like a failure, like I can't do anything right, the decreased ability to deal with stressors... And then the whole Broch Turner thing knocked me flat on my ass, and I haven't been able to really get my legs under me. Add to that the insanity of our country electing a man who has been accused of sexual assault by numerous women, and who has openly admitted to being a sexual predator. 

When I slow down ...especially when I lie down to go to sleep, as silence sets in, "it" is un-ignorable. It's like when you can hear your neighbors...they're just loud enough that you know who is speaking, and just loud enough that you can't ignore them, but not loud enough that you can make out what they are saying. I know what is there, and these days, instead of coming as the video recording of events, it's the emotional/visceral piece...the claws sunk into my chest that are the anticipation of the inevitable/unavoidable that I hope if I just pretend it's not there hard enough, that it won't be...even though deep down I know it will be the same...that I am not safe, I am alone, no one is going to make it better, and all of my efforts were useless. 

There is a darkness...a heaviness that surrounds me and fills me. It is hopelessness, and helplessness...knowing that I am powerless. It is the constant vigilance; wondering when the next attack will come...and knowing that it will come, because it always does.


It is being caught by the loop of the trauma, the hopelessness, the sense of endless torture.

I wish I could say that today I AM safe...but I can't. As a gay woman, I am a target...it's been a few years since I've been accosted, but the politics of the last several months has put those of us who don't fall into the standard Straight/white/male/christian category back in the cross hairs. 

So, I don't sleep at night, I eat like an elephant all day, and I can't seem to slow my brain down long enough to focus on studying for my boards because that might allow "it" to creep in. I busy myself with trying to make this world a better place so I can feel safer in it, less powerless...but I'm still struggling.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Step up, speak up

My mind has been on social change of late...like, actual action toward social change. And a lot of people have been feeling the need for social change. Everyone has their own idea about what it means to work for making this a better world. For many it's posting stories, signing petitions, or going to marches. All good things, but I would hope that people will be there to help someone in need when they aren't safe behind  computer screen or when they aren't standing beside a crowd of people. Let me share a story to illustrate my point:

About 10 years ago I was leaving a Stevie Nicks concert holding hands with my girlfriend at the time. As we're walking along, I hear this drunk dude behind us, getting louder and louder with, angrily ranting about the "disgusting dykes." Not wanting to escalate anything, I tried to ignore drunk man as he got closer, with his two drunk girl friends tittering at his side. As this was going on I could hear people in the crowd around us muttering about what was going on, but I couldn't tell if the were going to be on my side or his if things did escalate. Mr. drunk man eventually managed to get beside me, at which point he started shoving me...after the second shoved back and sent his ass flying.

Fortunately, I scared the shit out of him and came chasing after me groveling about how he "didn't mean it", and fortunately no one in the crowd decided to pick up where he initially left off. I've had several years of martial arts experience, so 1 against 1, especially when the other was drunk was okay odds. But, that didn't mean that I wasn't terrified, because I was. I was alone in that crowd, and in that moment it was me against that entire crowd because no one let me know that they weren't against me. My guess is most of the people around us didn't support Mr. drunk man, and were probably horrified by his behavior. But guess what? Not a SINGLE person stepped up, and spoke up. My gf and I were lucky; we weren't hurt that day, we weren't mobbed by homophobes. But how many people HAVE been hurt when the people around them didn't speak up.

So, for the 3 people who will read this, I implore you to speak up whenever you hear someone talking shit to or about a marginalized group, cuz hey, in their mind your silence equals support/agreement. Speak even if your voice shakes. Who knows, you might save a life.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

What happens when...

What happens when your dad is known as the "town drunk" in a town full of drunks? It's an interesting question to ponder, isn't it?

Then, just for fun; what happens if your mom is mentally ill and everyone expects you to be a "good girl" and not "stress out" said mother...because she's already got that drunken husband to worry about.

And then, your older sister is a psychotic drug abuser who sometimes tries to do you great bodily harm...what then?

The answer would probably be a little different for everyone. Here is my answer...

From an early age I was taught to keep secrets. Between my family, and all of the weirdos I've encountered in my life, I'm just overflowing with secrets; some mine, some not. And I'm so over-full, that everything else just spills over. I say things I probably shouldn't, and I don't mean to say, but I can't even keep a lid on my not-so-nice secret opinions of people and things. I make an ass of myself, I hurt feelings, and I really don't mean to.

The world isn't a safe place, and no one can keep me safe, not even me. We've talked about safety before...there's no such thing as absence of risk...but I have a pathological belief that I am not safe. New experiences terrify me to the point of inaction. Certain social situations petrify me. I've avoided doing so many things that I really wanted to do because stupid little things terrify me. Logically I know that it's...illogical, but the terror overrides anything that I know in my Right Mind.

I believe that everyone thinks less of me. I'm always the trashiest of the trash. The dumbest of the dumb. I can never be the smart one, the cool one, the best one. No matter how hard I work. I will always be the outsider.

...And I hate to be around alcohol...I use my own alcoholism as the excuse, but the truth is that it is just as much, or probably more because of my dad. When I was about 4 my mom asked me if my dad was drunk. I couldn't answer because I didn't know what he was like sober...so it was kind of a dumb question for her to ask. He was never not drunk...just lesser degrees of drunk. He went to bed drunk, and woke up drunk. That was all I knew. And I can smell booze on someone a mile away...and I just don't like it. It doesn't make me think of good times and parties, it makes me think of hours stuck in the bar with dad on a "parts run" to town, of the nasty stench of weeks-old BO and booze that wafted off my dad, and permanently was embedded in the interior of the pickup...and of the many, many scary rides home not knowing if we were going in the ditch, and not knowing if this time when he ran off the road he was going to roll the truck or just take out the neighbors fence, or how far we were going to have to walk home in the dead of night in the middle of the 30 degree winter night. And does that smell of alcohol mean that that person is going to mean, flat, creepy, psycho?

And all of this means that as much as I love people, I kind of hate being around them. My guts are always in a knot wondering if I will say or do the wrong thing, or if they are going to do something to harm me...and if they do hurt me, surely it'll be my fault anyway.


Thursday, July 21, 2016

poverty mind...again

Ever have one of those days when you feel like everything you touch turns to sh*t? I certainly had a mega-sh*t day. I "know" it wasn't a total disaster, but it feels like it...the feeling is stronger than the knowledge. I "know" this was fired up by my Poverty Mind...today I had to make a payment for braces...f'ing braces at 45. Throw a flat tire on top of that to start the day, and I emotionally couldn't adult today.

I grew up hearing "we can't afford that." That was my mother's answer to everything. 
Can I have a toothbrush?
Can I go to a concert?
Can I go to the dentist (BEFORE I have an abscessed tooth)?
I think I broke my ankle, can I go to the Dr?
Can we get some bananas?

Nope. But mom can have her cigarettes, and dad can have his booze. 

Message: You aren't worth anything...in fact you are a burden.

And that's where my head is today. I know better...dang it, I know better. 

Maybe tomorrow I will know better, and feel better. 


Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Fight, Flight, or Fight

Fight, flight, or freeze.

I like to think of myself as a bad-ass. I have a black belt, I've been in many fights (with men bigger than me), I ride a motorcycle, and hey; I throw cabers. I should respond to perceived danger with a Fight response, right??? I can't tell you how many times I've told myself this, because the number is really impossible to judge...thousands, hundreds of thousands...millions... The truth is, I "know" better than to berate myself, but I do it anyway. My higher brain knows better, but part of me that was traumatized, and that was told in so many ways by so many people that it was always her fault, that she was the "wrong" one...she can't listen to logic...she can't believe logic.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

I had my black belt in Tae Kwon Do. I was strong as hell. I was an adult, and I was never going to let anyone violate me again.  I looked him in the eye and told him "no." But then he was on top of me and I froze. i couldn't breath. i couldn't speak. i couldn't move. It was my fault, I should have fought...

Fight, flight, or freeze.

These are the ways our nervous system responds to danger. We don't get to choose. To a small degree our predisposition determines how we will respond, and to a greater degree our early experiences of sense of safety, trauma, and support (or lacks there of) determine which mode we will default to. We can predict who will develop PTSD, and who won't based on a person's perception (and actual) current internal and external resources, as well as that's person's belief that they can utilize and rely on those resources...which has a ton to do with the previously mentioned factors. As a trauma therapist I know this. And yet, I don't always feel it, I don't always own it, I don't always KNOW it... I have gotten better over the years...therapy, lots of therapy. Being in positive relationships (not just romantic). Learning to trust myself in small ways, that don't seem to have anything to do with all of this stuff. Loving myself and others. Finding and recognizing my strengths.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Over the years I've had therapists try to tell me that if I'd fought back, he probably would have killed me. They were attempting to help me not be so hard on myself. But he wasn't that kind of guy, and their attempts were more annoying than helpful. I wasn't protecting myself from a horrendous beating, or murder when I froze that morning. I was doing what my nervous system had been programmed to do years before when I was (like a fawn) truly helpless: I froze. The nervous system is an amazing thing. It keeps us breathing without thinking about it, it can block out the billions of bits of information that our sensory system is taking in so we can focus in on what is "important", it develops automatic responses to various stimuli, including danger so that we can deal with it without thinking about it.

I have been working on re-writing my programming for a loooong time. Sometimes I think I have the cracked the code, sometimes I think it's hopeless. It's been a long spell of being in the Hopeless mode, but this whole finding my voice thing seems to be shaking things up. I can't always speak up for myself, but I can speak up for others. I can't always act in the moment, but I can muster up the courage to deal with some things later.

I'm starting to thaw. I'm starting to fight. Or maybe I have been fighting, I just didn't KNOW it until now.

(There are many cultures that believe that there is power in knowing/saying someone's name. I can speak now. I speak your name, Jeff H. I reclaim my power from you.)

Saturday, July 16, 2016

To live fiercely

Today would have been my father's 81st birthday. This is the 24th birthday that has passed since his death, and perhaps the first that I wasn't punched in the gut with sadness. That's not to say that I don't miss my dad...maybe it's just taken me this long to get used to the fact that he is gone.

Which brings me to the subject of WHY he is gone. My dad died from cirrhosis of the liver. A fate that I consider myself lucky to have not shared...although I'm pretty sure I would have committed suicide LONG before I got that chance to develop cirrhosis had I not stopped drinking.

I've written about mine and my father's alcoholism over the years, but I don't think I've written about our shared social dysphoria. My dad really didn't talk much about his younger years, but one of the stories that he did share was of how he was  incredibly shy and self conscious about his appearance, but when he drank that melted away a bit and he could be one of the guys. Like my father, I was shy...I can remember being 4 years old and being so anxious around people outside of the family it was practically physically painful. I can't say that alcohol made me feel like everyone else, but it did make me feel Powerful. I still felt vulnerable, shy, but at least I FELT like I had some armor...like maybe I could survive this weird thing called life, especially early on...I remember being 7, searching for my dad's stash...knowing that if I could just have a drink it would quiet the horrors of life...

But as time went on, sometimes that incredible Anger-Armor was equaled in intensity by Hopelessness. I am convinced that only divine intervention saved me from suicide...a few times. Alcohol was a fickle friend...I never knew which direction it would take me...and my dad's death wasn't enough to convince me to quit drinking; I had to find sobriety through my face-plants along the road.

I wonder what my life would have been like had my father found recovery...had he found another way to deal with his own insecurities...had he been able to conquer the physical addiction. Would I be better or worse off? Would I have left ND? Would I have found my own path to recovery? How much longer would I have had him in my life? Honestly, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about these things, but his birth and death anniversaries are always a reminder of these things.

I have made peace with his death. And more importantly, I've made peace with his life choices. I miss my father, and over the years the good memories have become stronger than the not-so-good. I regret that we didn't have time to make more good memories, that I wasn't able to learn more from my dad, but I cherish what I do have. Today is also a reminder to cherish my own life...my own recovery. I chose a different path...sometimes rough, sometimes smooth. Sometimes ugly, sometimes breath-taking.

Maybe this year I can celebrate my father's birthday by living my life fiercely...for me, for him...for everyone who cares about me. A fierce life, where I don't let fear and insecurity rule my thoughts, decisions, and actions. Yeah, I dig it.

Endings and Beginnings

Yesterday I finished up the last ever labs for the schooling I'm in. I still have a written final coming up in a few days to finish up the semester, but I'm done. Emotionally, mentally, I'm just done. I still have a semester's worth of internships to complete, followed by a licensing exam...and then I start the next chapter of my life. A new career at 45...yet ANOTHER career in a long line of careers...and I'm a little afraid...

Fear number 1: Will I hate this? I haven't had a good track record with "job satisfaction" in a long time. Granted I've had some very stressful work situations, usually due to mentally unstable co-workers...still it's been a long time since I can say I loved a job. I really want to love this new career...and I'm really tired of being told in so many words what a loser I am because I can't seem to hold a single job for more than 2 years. I've done my damnedest to tolerate bad jobs/situation, but I don't have the...emotional fortitude to hang when things get hellish. I can only tolerate so much stress and anxiety.

Fear number 2: Will I physically be able to do this? Granted my recent internship was probably a bit atypical, but a few weeks later my hands are still in horrible shape...my fingers hurt all the time. Will I be able to handle whatever a "typical" setting will be? And will the autoimmune crap allow me to put in 40 hours a week...will I be able to function outside of work, or will I fall ill for a couple weeks every couple of months?

Fear number 3: Will I emotionally be able to do this...will just the general anxieties about failure sabotage me? Will being back in a service role drain me to my core, again? Will my PTSD continue to keep me so overwhelmed that I can't function in a full time job, where I have to be "on" at all times? Hell, I can't handle being at the farmer's market if there are too many people without losing my shit...will I be able to handle being at a busy clinic all day?

Fortunately, my next 2 internships will give me different experience so that I can answer these questions a little better. Seven weeks each...I just have to survive 7 weeks each. I've been in a fairly busy clinic where I saw a LOT of patients...had I not had to deal with open discussions of religious and political natures it would have been a much more tolerable site. More will be revealed...

In the mean time I need to focus on what my strengths are, what it is I will be bringing...or want to bring to the table. I have to think about the boundaries I need to set and the self care I need to do. Oh that self care...that is a tough one. One big thing I need to stop doing is isolating...over the winter I became acutely aware of how much worse I felt mentally and emotionally when I isolated...so it will be imperative to find the balance of introvert-alone-time, and social outlets. I also need to get out and "do" more things...and less staring at the computer or hiding in a book. And, to continue the theme of the summer, I need to continue to find/use my voice. I've got some pretty awesome people in my life right now and it's imperative that I show them the respect of engaging with them...I often wonder how many awesome friendships I've missed out on because I hid behind my silence and secrecy. Enough of that crap...they're all going to hear my silly stories, bad jokes, fears, embarrassing moments, and obsessions with Kinseo Tape.

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Turning the Tides

I've gone through a number of writing-spurts on this blog, with an equal number of purposes. These days it's about tbi therapy, sharing my crazy stories, and trying to make this a better/safer world through understanding/love/strength/encouragement...by finding my own voice and encouraging others who recognize that silence is...killing us to find their voices as well. It was Br*ck Turner's "victim's" letter** that really sent me over the edge of rage that got me to start this crazy journey...I used "" because she is so much more than a victim...I don't really know what to call her...except My Hero. As painful as it was to read her letter, her courage in facing him, and letting her own words be heard shock this country to it's core. It pissed us off, it made is cry, it triggered us, it opened our eyes, it enraged us enough for her that we became enraged enough for ourselves and every other victim out there to stop letting those people who hurt us (not only "perps" but all the well-meaning, and not so well meaning people who have silenced/shamed us) continue to silence us. I hope she knows that she HAS started a revolution, a revolution I hope to continue in some small way with my little blog.

Tonight, my heart is heavy for the men and women of color in this nation who know that they are not safe...not safe from crazy white folks, and not safe from the police. My heart is heavily most recently for the 2 black men who were murdered by the police, and for all of the many people of color, and their loved ones who know that because of the color of their skin, that they are walking targets. It breaks my heart to know that my non-white friends can't drive down the street, or walk into a store without being treated like a criminal. I keep trying to figure out how I can make this better, but I haven't come up with any solutions other than to continue to express my disgust and intolerance of racism.

My heart is also heavy for the police officers who were gunned down just a few nights ago. What is this nightmare our country is having that we can't seem to wake up from? How do we wake up from it? How do we change our course? How do we conquer hate with love...can we conquer hate with love? During a meditation last week I had what felt like a revelation that there is no way to "kill" negativity/evil, but that instead it would be transformed by encouraged the health (love) of the rest of humanity. In this moment, that revelation feels like a pipe dream, but I will hold out a little hope that if I keep doing my best to "lead with Love", that maybe that Love can grow enough to turn the tides...

Maybe a few more voices will speak up to shame and silence those who encourage hate...now wouldn't that be a tide turner?

**In case you haven't read the letter, or need a refresher: https://www.buzzfeed.com/katiejmbaker/heres-the-powerful-letter-the-stanford-victim-read-to-her-ra?utm_term=.fiY1yOoGj#.vn2GRQ5py

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Illusions

I want to talk to you about illusions today. The first illusion, is the illusion of the "wholesome community." I hear that term less, and less, so perhaps the illusion isn't as strong as it used to be, or maybe it's just in NM people know better. I used to hear people refer to my home state of ND as "wholesome" and as "safe" (the latter being my second discussion of illusions). If you've read back, you might have a clue or two as to why I think it laughable that people on the outside would think such things about ND. 

In college I remember seeing a statistic that basically said that in urban areas the rate of violent, stranger crime is much higher; but on the other side domestic crimes tended to be higher in rural areas. I have no idea if that stat is still legit, so who knows... What I do know is that there was nothing "wholesome" about my little world I grew up in. What I grew up around was a community full of rampant alcoholism, domestic violence, and sexual abuse...and the community dealt with it by, surprise-surprise, denial and/or blaming the victims. 

By 14, all the girls knew that if an older (you know, 40s, 50s) guy asked you to take a walk that a) it was rude to say "no", b) it was your job to make sure that you fought him off (nicely), otherwise, whatever happened was your fault and you had not excuse to complain. And, if you are sexually abused as a child (you know, pre-puberty, cuz after puberty, you should know better), don't worry...the entire town will know about it, because that's the great thing about small communities; everyone knows whats going on and is there to support you, and bring you hot-dish...they'll take care of you...by talking about how you instigated it because you wanted it. 

One evening as a senior in high school, I drove the 5 miles (did I mention "rural"?) to my neighbors house because her dad was beating her and threatening to kill her. Why did she call me, instead of the police? Because the sheriff's deputy lived about 20 miles away, AND had been arrested for a rape 2 or 3 times by then, so if he actually came...who knows how much help he would be. So I grabbed my .357 and drove there as fast as I could not knowing what the hell I was going to walk into...would my friend be beaten to death, would her father be cooled down and flare up when I came in, would I have to "defend" her or myself? ***

These are just a few stories of "wholesome", "safe" rural America...a wonderful place to bring up your children. I've thought over the years a lot about writing an autobiography so I can dis-spell this myth, maybe I'll get to it someday...maybe people have already figured it out for themselves. 

Which brings us to "safety."What does it mean to be safe? If we don't think to hard about it, we might say we are safe because of our city, our neighborhood, the locks on our doors, the gun in our bed stand...but do any of these things mean we are "safe"? And what do these things, and rituals protect us from? Will the gun keep us from getting cancer? Will the "wholesome" community keep my children safe? Will my nice neighborhood keep me from tripping over the dog and breaking me neck? Of course not. The truth is, there is no such thing as pure, capital "S" Safety. It's an illusion we create for ourselves with trinkets, and rituals.

You may be thinking "well, that's a bit bleak." Oh, but wait, here's the (good) loop hole! We can reduce our risks, That really is the name of the game. And how do we reduce risk? first we figure out what our risks are, and we address them specifically, and realistically. Realistically meaning we don't assume our risks are the same as those of our hero in our favorite action movie, nor will we address things the same way as our action hero...believe it or not, even the elitely trained don't stand much of a chance against a room full of machine gun toting bad guys...but the good news; your chance encountering these bad guys is  less than getting struck by lightening...while winning the lottery. I see avoiding conscious risk reduction as that whole "if you don't make a decision, you have made a decision." We can blindly pretend we are dealing with the real risks in our lives, or we can distract ourselves with the illusions we create for ourselves, or are given us by society, parents, peers, etc. 

So, are you at risk to be attacked my a trans-woman in the toilet at Target? Yeah, about as much as the lightening/lottery thing. Ninjas? Mmmm, I think you know the answer to this one. Will we die if we speak our truth? Depending of the circumstance, of course; probably not. It did not feel "safe" to start posting this blog, but I did some risk reduction first; and I thought about the potential risks: would I be shamed by "friends" for speaking my truth, would it change my relationships, would I feel this that or the other based on how people reacted? There are risks, non-fatal risks, and risks I'm sometimes willing to take, and my risks aren't the same as another person's may be. When I'm in a good place, I stand by what I said in a previous post: We have to raise our voices up over those of the people who would shame us, and blame us while exonerating the "bad guys." I will speak for the younger version of me who had no voice and no advocate, and I will speak for all those who have no voice. And I will hope that as a country, and as a human race we open our eyes to the illusions around us, and that we help others to do the same that we may live, speak, see, and act in a way that brings peace, hope, and healing to us all.

 (Disclaimer: As a Motorcycle Safety Rider Coach we would start classes by a discussion of safety and risk reduction, so I can't take credit for all of this as original thoughts.)

***Papa asshat screamed and raged about how he didn't do anything, officer rapey came (but didn't rape anyone), and no further violence was had that night.

Friday, July 1, 2016

Missteps in finding my voice

This morning I saw that I had gotten a notification from a company I had written a not-so-glowing review on. It was an honest review, and honestly, I wasn't as harsh as I could have been, but seeing that I had a notification from them sent me into an absolute terror. I couldn't even read it I was so overwhelmed with fear, racing thoughts, pounding heart, and shaking hands. Now granted, I've been away from home, routine, and family/friends/pups for 4 weeks, and I'd been in a car for the last 2 days so I wasn't at my best physically or emotionally, but still...my emotional, knee jerk reaction knocked me off balance. Not because this is an abnormal reaction to presumed or real confrontation for me, but because I had decided that I was recently cured of being afraid of speaking my truth. And I realize that it's not that simple, this business of reclaiming your voice...or maybe finding a voice you've never had...but I was enjoying the fantasy...

Several hours later, heavily snuggled by puppies, and even medicated I'm feeling like I'm back on solid ground. I was able to actually open the notification and read it, as opposed to think about all the horrible things it might say, even though I know logically they would not for business sake do something as stupid as send me a nasty message * . But this old wound trumps (we need a new word) logic, and it certainly trumps a couple weeks of "speaking my mind" on my blog. And it's a tricky wound because it is a complex, and systemic wound. It is a shot gun blast of growing up with a checked-out alcoholic father, mentally ill and sometimes homicidal sister, a slew of perverts, and a mentally ill mother who couldn't give me comfort let alone a sense of safety I so desperately needed. 

I've already chatted about self-doubt, shame, and loss of voice that comes from being assaulted. What I haven't talked about, lately anyway is the direct messages I got from my mother countless times. Her favorite; "Don't tell anyone (fill in the blank) or the social workers will take you away." The blank could be about my father's drinking, or the bottle full of pills she had taken...just don't talk about anything, and you will be safe. What a grand lie...fantasy...cover up: Keep your mouth shut, and you will be okay. The real truth: Keep your mouth shut, and the person being a douche can pretend they have done nothing wrong, and won't have to take accountability for their actions. 

There have been times when the message has been more subtle...like one of my earliest memories from about 3 when my mother was telling a neighbor what a good girl I was because "she's so quiet, she never bothers me." Or how everyday when I got home from school she would stop what she was doing to tell me about her awful stressful day but woe to me if I tried to talk to her (it only took one time to learn that was a big no-no). There were also the times I would tell the grade school teacher that the older boys were picking on me...her response "they only pick on you because you react! Just ignore them"...just swallow your voice and everything will be okay. But, it was not okay.

I've started off on a Hobbit adventure of finding my voice. It will be a long treacherous journey, but there is no turning back...and I know there will be secondsies at the end of the road.

*(They apologized for my experience, and hoped that I would give them the opportunity to make it right)

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

experience

How we interpret an experience is unique to our experience. Take for example the ocean...most people will tell you they love the ocean because it's nothing but water as far as you can see, white sand everywhere, and the crashing of the surf. My mother will tell you that she hates the ocean because it is...nothing but water as far as you can see, white sand everywhere, and the crashing of the surf. The experience is the same, but how it's experienced is quite different.

Turn on the news, it's easy to see how there are many experiences of events in the world. Something I am curious about is how do we, as the human race, create a more congruent sense of our experience? How do we develop empathy, and compassion as a race? There is way too much anger, hate, fear, prejudice, violence, and selfishness going on in this world.

I am a firm believer that small acts of compassion can change the world. If each of us makes someone else's life just a little bit better, that small act of kindness can travel the world. A smile, a kind word, a pay-it-forward at the drive through...it all adds up. We can do this. We can just as easily send out more negativity, but I think there is plenty of that. We can pray, or meditate, or ponder peace; but nothing is going to change until we engage in some action steps.Six degrees of separation...that is how small this big world is...six degrees of separation...we CAN change someone's experience for the better.  Come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try and love one another right now.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

We can do better

Today was a pretty decent day...I'm winding up my internships and semester, my wife arrived today...haven't seen her in over 4 weeks. I am, however; physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted...and I'm just kinda burned out. Between the world at large, and keeping up with internship and school...it's been a rough several weeks.

In addition to all the usual stressors, the friend I'm staying with discussed going to a friends high school reunion in order to "support" them. This friend is a part of the LGBT community, and my little 5' 2" friend thought that she could accompany her friend as a "protector", even though she might be mistaken as a "partner" as they headed to the backwoods of the US.  My reaction was to get angry with her and tell her that she couldn't go, as if I could make her do anything (she's old enough to be my mother, and even more stubborn than I am). Once I calmed myself down, and thought about what my fears were, I was able to share them with her...and I was also punched in the gut by the truth of what it is that we (LGBT) have to deal with every day. And it isn't something that is completely unique to us, people of color deal with the same types of crap...

My fear for her was that as she traveled with her friend and was assumed to be a sexual partner, and not just a friend, that she would become a target. As LGBT folk, we have dealt with rejection, discrimination, threats of violence, and sometimes actual violence, which has helped us develop a radar. We know when we have to get leave a place, or not hold hand; stand to close; or touch our partner, or not speak too loud. We know when we need to posture, or when to make ourselves small...it's a radar that my friend doesn't have. I also didn't want her to have to have the experience of some jack-ass jumping in front of her and grabbing his crotch, leering, yelling at her that he was going to show her what a "real man" was like. (Sadly, this latter is an experience that most women in some fashion have experienced...it's just been my experience that when I'm recognized as a lesbian, that there is much more...violence/anger behind it) I don't want anyone to have that experience, especially not anyone I love. But the truth is that most of my Family has at some period experienced that dangers of being who we are. And it made me damn sad to realize that it's so "normal" for us all, that I didn't even realize it was there until I felt I had to protect my friend from it.

I've said it previously, I'll say it again: things are better. Things are a helluva lot better. But Orlando was a reminder that we still aren't safe. The prayers for our deaths by "god fearing christians" let us know that we're not safe. The continued violence that never makes the news because it was one of us...it tells us that we are not important enough to be protected. When people can openly discriminate against a group, or talk about our inherent sin/evil/general awfulness...it sends a message to the folks who maybe aren't operating with all of their faculties that we are less than human, that it is okay to hurt us (they will be supported and applauded for doing so), that we deserve to be hurt/killed/punished, and we become societies scapegoats.

In 2008 I did a presentation on the issues that the LGBT community faces. Here's one little section of stats:

      Gay & Bi Men report adulthood sexual assault at rate of 11.6% & 13.2%, as compared Straight Men at 1.6%


      Lesbian & Bi Women report adulthood sexual assault rates of 15.5% & 17%, as compared to 7.5% of Straight Women

The kicker...it's not just the women who are being assaulted by straight men, it's the gay men who are being assaulted primarily by "straight" men. Wrap your head around that. Now wrap your head around how it is as a society we condone, or at the very least "look away from" violence, or discrimination against any group whether it's women, homeless, mentally ill, Native American, LGBT...if we don't feel just as horrified about the ill treatment of any of those groups as we do a rich movie star we've never met, or a white senator, a businessman, or whoever...what does that say about us a humans? I don't know, but I know we can do better. May I be the Light...

Friday, June 24, 2016

Honoring our Truth

I was talking with one of my Sisters in the Revolution today about this weird phenomenon where when we are abused/assaulted we are told these strange, dismissive things by society, our family, our peers, our perps that make us doubt our experience, and our feelings  Strange things like "it wasn't that bad", "nothing REALLY happened", "you're crazy/wrong/bad", "you're over-reacting", "you asked for it by (fill in the blank with something stupid)"...and so on...we all have that phrase we've heard that set us off kilter, when we are already thrown off course by what has happened... And we are silenced...we are silenced by these messages that tell us that some how WE got the experience wrong.

We are further silenced by the impending shame that comes from all victim-blaming messages that we are gifted from Rape Culture, directly and indirectly, that we internalize and make our own. Messages that tell us that we mustn't really know our reality,  that we somehow "let" this happen, that we should have known better, that we must be the only one (so WE must be bad/wrong/damaged for this to have happened), that it could have been worse (so, get over it)...again the list goes on and on... is it any wonder that we lose our voices, and doubt our truth?

But we know all of that, don't we? Here's what I haven't really figured out...why is it that society is so willing to believe a perp over a victim? Why is it we have to question the motives, actions, integrity of a victim, as if they are the ones guilty of some crime, while we allow perps to be considered innocent until proven guilty? Why is it so much easier for society to believe that victims are lying, and that perps couldn't have possibly have committed the atrocities that they are accused of? I have answers to these questions based on my research, and my work...how if we acknowledge that there are monsters among us that maybe WE could be a monster, or someone we love could be a monster; or that if we acknowledge that someone else was victimized we might have to acknowledge our own victimizations, that the perps have shouted so loud for so long that we started to believe their "truth", etc...yes I have some intellectual answers...but these answers don't satisfy me in my gut, and they don't satisfy my sense of justice.

What is the answer? Maybe, at least part of the answer is Honoring our Truth. Honoring the Truth of our Sisters (and Brothers). Letting our voices be heard. Letting all of our voices drown out the voices of the people who would blame us, shame us, dismiss us.

Here is one of my Truths that I will Honor today:
I was 7, John McA$$hat was 15.  For years I thought "I should have stopped it, I should have fought harder." Truth: He was literally twice my size. And even when my brother, who nobody messed with threatened to kill him, he still didn't stop. I couldn't have stopped him.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Finding our Voices

So, there was this AA speaker that would always say that her sponsor told her "some people grow from love...some people grow from pain; YOU grow from pain." I used to think that was such bull$hit, and it kinda made me angry, this idea that we can't all grow from love. I can look back over my life and see many times that I have grown as a person because of the love I was shown, and how I was stifled as a person by pain. 

Recently, though I think I grew from pain. The Stanford rapist-$hit-a$$ thing was very painful...it made me angry, it broke my heart, it triggered my $hit...but somewhere in that mess I finally got angry enough to find my voice, and start breaking free from the shame I have been carrying for so, so many years. And I see others, who like me have carried their not-so-secret secret who are now stepping into the light, and letting their voices be heard. In doing so, in seeing my Sisters do so, I DO feel stronger, and I feel connected to something greater...to the Sister-Warriorhood. 

As we find our voices, as we share our fears, shames, strengths, vulnerabilities; we become stronger. We've been shouted over, silenced, belittled so long that we believed that we were wrong...but no more...as each of us shares our story, and lets our voice be heard, we make all of our voices stronger, until WE are louder than our attackers...and those men and women who have hurt us finally have to carry their own shame, and we can be free. We can live in the Power we were meant to have. We can finally honor our Voice, our Experience, our Truth.

I am still angry...but no longer blindfully rageful...that blind rage allowed me to crack myself open and break my silence, but it was a rage that was going to burn me. This anger will allow me to continue hold onto my voice, and to support my sisters (and brothers) as they find their voices, and their power. So, yes, sometimes we can grow from pain. Look out, The Revolution is coming...

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Spreading the Light

I was already feeling a little philosophical (or full of bs?) this morning since I spent most of the night lying awake with my rambling thoughts rather than sleeping...and then I read a snippet in the newspaper. This chap, Scott Maxwell I believe was his name, had been asked to speak at his church about the Orlando Massacre...the last line he asks, "Did I spread light, or foster darkness?" In my own way, I had been pondering this question for myself as I zombied, half asleep through my morning.

Specifically, I was thinking about the life events that have brought me to exactly where I am right now. Had my dad not lost the ranch through his alcoholism, and the crappy economy of the 80s, I would have hidden myself away on the ranch. Hidden away on the ranch I would have nurtured my own alcoholism, and probably be long dead. And I would like to think that somewhere along my travels, that I have spread light...that I have made someone's life just a little bit better...that maybe, just maybe, the world was a little tiny bit better for me being here.

Yesterday at the clinic a returning patient, upon seeing me, squealed my name and came running to give me a hug. I thought for a moment she must have me confused with someone else, but then she started going on about how engaged I was with her last time, and how it had made her feel important, and that her issues were important. It was something small in the grand scheme of the world, but for her it was a big deal. And it did make me feel like maybe I am important to this world, that by just being kind, and present, and engaged we all have the opportunity to make the world a better place.

As for the darkness, yes, I am guilty of being a fully engaged step-parent to the darkness. I gossip, I judge, I seethe. It is something I am ashamed of, and it is something I would like to change...but the darkness is seductive. Perhaps if I focus more on spreading the Light, and less on avoiding the darkness, my Light can fully dis-spell the darkness.

Monday, June 20, 2016

today was a good day...

Feeling less angry today. As well as less...well, everything...but in a good way. My last post was a catharsis. I said things that I needed to say, and that I've been needing to say directly for some time...I've just needed to let my truth see the light. I have been lugging my shame and fear around on my back for far too long, and I've been able to dump a little bit of that load. Am I cured? I don't know...I don't even know what that means, or what that would look like.

At least for today, I feel like a "normal" human being (or at least what I think a "normal" human being feels like)...not so much like the waif on the outside looking in. Will I be able to maintain, how will I maintain? I don't know. And that is okay. I'll take today, and I will embrace it with gratitude.

Yesterday, the 5 remaining days of my internship seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, but now that it's whittled down to 4, now that I know I will see my wife in 5 sleeps, now that by the end of next weekend I will only have one more written test left to finish my degree...now I feel like I'm on the downhill, and at least for today, everything seems do-able.


Sunday, June 19, 2016

Raging Rant

I'm re-posting this from my other blog (with some editing), Finding Grace (http://fallingupwithgrace.blogspot.com/) ...because I can...and because I finally was able to recover my password for this one...and because, fuck it...I'm not going to be afraid of my truth anymore (and who hears it).

I've been in Washington for 3 weeks now for my internship. I was expecting it to be hell, but I wasn't fully prepared for the types of hell it has been. Yes, I expected to miss home...in all the ways that home is home (snuggling at bed time with wife and pups while watching stupid tv, studying with friends before tests, hitting a favorite restaurant once a week, spontaneous meet-ups with friends, routine, etc.). I expected to be exhausted from my internship (esp when I heard I'd be doing 4 10's), but I wasn't prepared for what amounts 11 hours a day with "learning" lunch breaks. I wasn't prepared for 11 hours a day of christian radio and hearing about the church, and the ministry, and "loving the lord." And, nothing against religion, or spirituality...but non-stop ANYTHING is wearing...I couldn't listen to Enya 11 hours a day, and talk about Enya all day long, and I LOVE Enya. Even though my supervisor is a very loving, kind, and open hearted Christian, not all of his patients are, so by opening up discussions about Christian views, invariably there will be patients discussing their view of the evil ho-mo-SEX-u-als.

I also wasn't prepared for the 20 hours of sunlight that Washington gets every day...having turned into an old lady who is up with the sun, I've averaged about 5 hours of sleep a night since I've been here...and it is catching up with me...and really exacerbating my post-concussion symptoms...concentration, confusion, balance, etc. Oh yeah, and I'm doing an online class...which is hard to keep up with when it takes me 30 minutes of reading to comprehend a paragraph.

Since I've been here, and away from home and stability the Stanford Rapist Debacle, and Orlando Massacre have occurred. Both have left me reeling. In the SRD, the miscarriage of justice when that little fucker was convicted but slapped on the hand by the good ol boy judge, when that young woman was run through the fucking wringer...when she endured the hell of being put on trial even though she was the victim...when she was re-victimized by the court system...and the jury found him guilty, but the perpetrator was the one who the judge decided he needed to take care of, keep safe...not the fucking victim of the little privileged piss head (who has apparently never had to take accountability for his actions)...when all of these things occurred I was knocked askew. I am heart broken for his victim, and for every other victim out there that has not gotten the justice that they deserve. I am heart broken for every person who has been told, and/or believed that it was their fault that they were sexually assaulted. I am heart broken for every person whose life has been irreparably damaged by sexual assault. And yes, I'm heart broken for myself. I'm heart broken for every fucking time I thought I was safe, and I learned that I wasn't. I'm heart broken for myself that by the last time I was violated, I'd been violated so many times it just wasn't that big of a deal...and even though that is the case, I never quite feel safe...my body is still not my own...and the nightmare never quite goes away, even when it quiets to a gentle white noise in the background...it never gives me complete peace...like the peace you get when the electricity goes off and without the refrigerator, and clocks, and lights humming, you finally hear true silence when you didn't even realized that your perception of silence was an illusion as you realize how loud the "quiet" was. And I have no positive, feel-good, "on-the-other-hand" for this. It just sucks, and it is the experience of way too many of us, and the press on this case was just a slap-in-the-face reminder about the lack of justice/resolution/closure most of us will experience.

Re: Orlando...in the week before the shooting, I had had two... TWO fucking conversations with people where I told them that things weren't so bad for us gays anymore. One of the people was looking for assurance as a mother of a teenage girl who had just come out as bi that she would be okay. "It's not like it used to be...it's mainly just cyber-douche hats these days...I haven't been threatened with a beating, or rape in over 10 years" I told her. Then this. I didn't really think it had affected my sense of safety as a lesbian until Monday at work when someone asked me if I was married...and I didn't correct him when he asked about my "husband." I haven't fucking hid the gender of my partner in years...but deep down, my sense of safety was rocked. I feel like I'm back on solid ground again there...but I'm angry...at so many fucking things I can't even articulate...but one is that some people's response was to immediately change their profile picture to some NRA bullshit, because defending every fucking nut jobs right to buy an assault rifle is more important than mourning our dead and thinking about how we can keep fuck -tards from easily getting their hands on weapons meant for war. You know what? I love guns. I think they are fun, especially ones that go "bang-bang-bang!" really fast and loud. But you know what else I love...my fucking bio-identical progesterone cream. Which I have to go to my dr. for, after an exam and an blood test...and I don't get that prescription indefinitely...I have to keep going back to my dr. to prove that I am safe to take it. So this bull shit about not being able to screen people for gun purchase; it's bullshit!...guess what...you want an assault rifle, you go to the fucking shrink, get your eval, then you can get your gun..or not...and you have to fucking get a re-eval every fucking year. I only get 3 refills, you fuckers only get 1 box of ammo. Problem solved. Boom!

And it's not just Orlando that has me pissed off...it's the fact that even though we finally have our marriage recognized by the USA, there are still people who want to take that away...the fight isn't over. We can't just relax...we have to remain vigilant. Just like we have to remain vigilant every time we leave the house...yes I am out...but yes, I still have to be VIGILANT every time I reach for Chris' hand...is it safe? Is someone giving us the look who might have a gun, or a knife and wait until there is no one around so they can gut us or shoot us. Is it better? Yes. Is it safe? Hell no. And every time some whack-job preacher or senator proclaims that gays are evil and destroying our country, attacking our well-being; it gives some off-kilter whack-a-doo who is looking for someone else to blame for his lot in life; someone weaker than him to blame, permission to beat, rape, and/or kill one of us. And yes, I have guns, I sometimes carry a pistol...but that doesn't make us safe. Some Westboro walnut could walk up to me with a gun out and pull the trigger before I had a chance to reach in my pocket. I think way too many people think action movies are real, and forget how real life really works.

Fortunately, I do have some really awesome people in my life...a couple folks who have checked on me since I've been up here to make sure I'm doing okay with all the crazy in the world, and in MY world. The folks I'm staying with are awesome, and have gone above-and-beyond taking care of me...making me dinner, adjusting my neck, bringing me fresh berries, loving me, making fart jokes...all the important stuff. Thank the Goddess for Love...and for allowing me to allow love into my life.