Rogue and Mortal Danger, and Trauma Work (TW)

(Parts Work: An Illustrated Guide to Your Inner Life by Tom Holmes (2011)

The book, Parts Work, describes our inner psychological world with drawings which are moving, thought-provoking, sometimes humorous and often poignant. The book shows how we can disentangle ourselves from the problematic habitual patterns in which we get stuck, and offers ways of positively using our particular talents and style for a fuller life.)

I've recently been exploring a different modality for dealing with my trauma history, and it rears its head in my day-to-day life. The funny thing about trauma is that when you're out of the original traumatic situation(s), whenever you encounter a situation that in the smallest bit relates to the original trauma, or in the slightest way triggers a stress response, you aren't dealing with the bitchy email from your boss, but instead your father screaming that hes going to kill the MF behind the counter, and you're just not sure if he is or not.

Anyway, so the above book is my new adventure...and adventure into Parts. Parts, and how and where the individual Part (or Part Alliances) engage with various situations, stressors, and people. (Let me just make a quick disclaimer that I know very little about the subject, this is just my experience of the work/exploration I have done thus far. If you have some stuck spots you might order the book for yourself, and/or find a therapist who has trained in this work.) Here are a couple of take-aways to get us started: We all have multiple parts that interact with different situations (consider that you are probably a different person with your mother than you are with your boss), we develop different parts in response to life situations and innate personality traits, and most importantly; NO PART IS BAD...Parts as they originated may no longer serve us so they may needs to learn some new skills or be paired with an ally, but they aren't bad nor do they need to be destroyed.

The reason I bring up the Parts work is that I have written before about the experience in which I had to extricate myself from Albert the Perverted Ranch Hand (https://cowgirl71.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-gun-under-my-pillow.html), and for me what stands out from this experience was the moment where I thought to myself "I'm going to have to get my pistol and shoot him, otherwise he is going to kill me." (Spoiler alert: I got away from him and nobody got shot). Something that has troubled me is that there are experiences where I have been able to fight my way free (like with Albert), and others where I just froze. So I beat myself up with the judgments and comparisons, and struggle to make sense of why some situations turned out better than others. Enter Parts work...

I've created a stack of Parts "tarot" from what I've been able to identify so far, and because I'm a big nerd, some of them are named for Dungeons & Dragons character classes as appropriate. The most recent one is Rogue...she's not a front-line fighter, but if she's in Mortal Danger, she's a little scrapper who will get shit done. MORTAL DANGER. 

Curiously, in thinking about the many uncomfortable situations I've encountered, the one with Albert was the first where I thought, "oh fuck! I'm going to die if...(I don't get the gun  first)" (mortal danger). And that was where Rogue entered the Realm, or at least the first time I can identify her stepping into a not-so-pleasant experience to save the day. And once I was able to identify Rogue, I could see that she has stepped into the fray in other situations, and that she did so because we/I perceived that I was in MORTAL DANGER. 

By identifying that the key in the situations where I was able to fight my way out was Mortal Danger (Seriously, the literal fear-for-my life), I'm able to free myself from some judgement of when I wasn't able to do so. Rogue has a specific task; to save my life, and if she doesn't see Us as being in Mortal Danger, she's going to hang back and let someone else deal with the trolls. In seeing this I have freed myself of a troll of my own making.

Shamanic Work and Movement on the Suicidality Front (TW)

For those who are a little closer to the inner circle, you know I have a Shamanic practice...for those who are not, now you know. I do a fair bit of psychopomp (helping the Dead "cross"), and Land/Space clearing. Yesterday I was in a zoom meeting for a group of us that trained in Clearings with the same person. During the meeting a couple of them were talking about Fields that might bind us together (think about when you woke up at 2 am, then talk to a bunch of friends who woke up at the same time for no apparent reason; you are sharing a Field for some reason...I'm not going to get overly into this today, hopefully that gives you enough reference to hang with me.)

As they were discussing Fields (which I'm not particularly familiar with and work very little with), I started thinking about this clearing I had done last summer for a friend. It was a property with two residences; one and OLD, huge house, and the other a newer, small home that was a converted garage. The older house had some interesting things going on, but the clearing went fairly well, even the basements (basements creep the shit outta me...sometime I'll tell you about my childhood basement). But when I got to the other home, I wasn't really able to feel much or get much...in spite of the fact that there had been two separate suicides in this structure. I thought ti was odd as I'm pretty sensitive to that kind of thing, but I thought, "well, maybe they already moved on, or that work I did with the rest of the property took care of the area." Unfortunately, per the owner's report, the small home was still funky.

Over the months I had tried to do some distance work to keep chipping away at it, but never really got anything. Then yesterday, as they were talking about Fields, and i was thinking about this case the air shifted in the room, my head felt like it was imploding, and it was quite clear that someone/thing from that home was there to let me know that they were still needing help. Just to be clear, it wasn't an attack (I have strong wards up for that, but I do allow for those in need of healing to enter as long as they can abide by guest/host custom). I put a few shields so I could get through the meeting, and as soon as we were done, I got out my tools and took a little journey.

As I was working with the entities, the Land, and now that I was paying attention, the Field, I  had a little (by little I mean fucking huge) revelation. If this isn't your first rodeo with me, you know that I suffer from suicidal thoughts (obsessions), and here I walked into a Suicidal Field last summer. And as I was doing the work yesterday it occurred to me that my suicidal thoughts got WAY worse right about the same time. So, why didn't I notice? The same reason a smoker doesn't smell smoke on their clothes, or the frog doesn't notice when you turn up the heat in the pan it's sitting in. It was familiar, it was normal, and was my own skin touching my skin.

From the perspective of a Field I thought about when my suicide journey began. It wasn't until a student at my high school had successfully suicided that my own obsession began. And it wasn't that I hadn't heard of suicide before, nor was it that the reasons to hook into suicidal-thoughts as a "coping strategy hadn't already been in place for years, but for whatever reason at that moment I jumped both feet into the Field.

I have been very actively addressing my suicidality through traditional psychotherapy, "energetic" treatments, and spiritual work, and things have most definitely improved. But yesterday felt like possibly the last link that needed to be addressed. I mused a while back about the possibility that now that I was aware that I didn't NEED the suicidal thoughts as a coping-strategy to make myself feel like I had power and choice in my life, or an exit strategy when the PTSD got too overwhelming, that maybe I would be able to free myself from it completely. The work yesterday, made that feel like more of a possibility. Time will tell.

For today, I was able to identify/feel the dysfunction in that place, and it feels like it has been resolved. The presence in my treatment room was addressed in a good way. And, for me, I feel a little lighter, and a little freer.

25 years, part 2 (the journey)

I've had a little bit of sleep since my last post, and I thought I'd chat a bit about my journey into long term sobriety. As I mentioned last time I had been trying to control my drinking since I was 17, including some fairly long periods of being dry, but it was always white-knuckling with little to no support from the folks around.

When I was 22 I started therapy, and was referred to an outpatient intensive alcohol treatment program in mid-winter, which I was quite pissed about because neither drinking nor consequences from it was what brought my happy ass to therapy. But, I am very good at following the rules, so I went, and I diligently did my homework including the requisite weekly AA meetings. I found an open speaker meeting (because I wouldn't have to talk/share in one of those), and I hung out...and I got a sponsor, and I decided maybe this wasn't such a bad idea (I STILL wasn't as bad as my dad, but maybe long term sobriety would be a good thing?).

During that time I became very involved with the group including (gasp!) speaking. I spent a lot of time with a couple of women in the group who had been around a bit longer than I, but were still pretty new in recovery. We'd have movie nights, go fishing/camping, have dinner together...we fostered a friendship that I wasn't quite accustomed to. And I will admit I had a crush on both of them, but especially R...but I knew P was straight, but was unsure about R, but this was the 90s in rural ND so you just didn't bring that kind of thing up.

In fall R and I had gone to the new (and only) coffee shop in town. While we were caffeinating, including a few chocolate covered coffee beans she told me she wanted to go to Williston to 12 step a friend, and did I want to join her. On a side note let me also mention that I was in a rather horrible relationship that I was desperate to get out of, but due to circumstances that I will save for another day, I finding it difficult to remove myself from the situation. So, when this gal I had a crush on wanted to go on road-trip with me, the answer was a, "hell yes!"

This is already a long story, so to cut to the chase, before we were half way there she was drunk. That night in Williston, after I'd hauled her out of her vomit, she kissed me, and we started a short, tumultuous relationship. I'd been struggling to hold on to my sobriety at that point and the fucking "read the Big Book and pray" shit that I got from my sponsor when I was struggling wasn't fucking cutting it. So, I was looking for an excuse or 4 and I got them...only, I wanted to get my 1 year in. So I did, then I celebrated my anniversary with Jim Beam. Then I proceeded to drink daily in spite of my best intentions not to (up to that point I'd been more of a binge drinker, so it was quite terrifying to not be able to get through a day without drinking...and that kids is when I realized I was indeed powerless over alcohol, and yes, I was just like my dad). So I drank throughout the winter, I missed class, I was late for work, I didn't get shit done; I turned into the person I hated.

R hated me, I was still madly in love with her, and I had gained somewhat more than 50 pounds during my relapse. I had been on antidepressants on and off as my depression was out of control, as was my suicidal thoughts. I finally got the shrink to try me on something new, which of course I drank on, and then I thought I was going to die (probably a panic attack induced by the meds), and I was finally able to interrupt the cycle.

I decided not to go back to AA right away because I had been around long enough to know how people got judged when they relapsed in my little town, so I wanted to make sure I could string some time together first. Several weeks later I started back to meetings, and found a new pack. And I fucking threw myself into AA...service work, chairing meetings, making coffee, whatever was needed, I was on it. Just for fun, shortly after I came out, I started and LGBT group on campus, I was the sober, lezzie cheer leader of Dickinson. But throwing myself into all of that shit, trying to help my communities got me out of my head and set a strong foundation for me. And of course I continued with therapy to address all of the contributing factors.

A couple weeks before my 3rd sobriety anniversary I moved to Albuquerque. I got hooked into AA right away and immediately made friends who are still my friends these long 22 years later even though I've moved away from AA. For my first 15 years or so I was very reliant upon AA for my sobriety, but there came a time when it wasn't really working for me. Nothing against AA, I know I owe my life to it, but I need something different now. And I admit, I haven't really found that thing that does what AA did for me early on, probably the biggest thing being having a sense of community that doesn't strongly involve alcohol. But I find pockets of community here and there, and I have legit friends who regardless of whether or not they drink, support the F*CK out of my sobriety.

I'm not one of those people in recovery who are all, "and one day the desire to drink was just lifted from me! It was a miracle!" (I kinda think those people are full of shit, but who knows? Maybe I'm just an asshole.) I struggle. Yeah, sure there are times when I don't have cravings or thoughts about drinking. But there are triggers...the smell of booze, working on my motorcycle with a Pepsi close by, unpleasant anniversaries, stress, but I have tools thanks to AA. I know to think through the drink (okay, that'll be yummy and I'll feel all warm inside when I stoke that ball of rage, but then I'll drink til I'm sick, my wife will kick my ass out, I won't stop, and I'll lose all the good shit in my life), do a gratitude list, pray, call a friend and see how they're doing, am I Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired, and just fucking talk about the cravings.

I'm sober, but I still struggle with my mental health issues. I think about drinking, but I know that booze will kill me because the voice that says "blow your brains out!" is just too fucking loud to ignore when I drink. And as I mentioned before, sobriety has blessed me with the gift of love. I love fiercely. And I care fiercely, and I'm not afraid of either anymore. There's a line in the Big Book about trudging the road of happy destiny, and I have heard countless AAer's misquote the definition of "trudge" as "to walk with purpose." To trudge is defined as "walk slowly and with heavy steps, typically because of exhaustion or harsh conditions" per google, or " to walk or march steadily and usually laboriously" per webster. Personally I find the actual definitions much more fitting. Sobriety is laborous, hello!, theres  reason only about 10% of maintain long-term sobriety. I fucking labored to get here, and I'm not going to sugar coat it with platitudes. Whatever your struggle is, may you continue to trudge your way to happy destiny, as well. Grab a buddy you can lean on and who will dust off your ass when you face plant and roll around in the muck, and pack a hearty lunch. See you on the road.

25 years

Today marks 25 years (more or less) since the last time I got drunk. I say more or less because I actually don't know the exact date because at the time I'd been trying to get back on the wagon for months and each day had been a failure, so I didn't put much stock in my ability to desperately re-attain sobriety. Once I'd finally gotten about a month under my belt I decided I might have a chance of maintaining, and I tried to piece together the date. I knew it was mid-April, but not idea exactly what day so I used a date that was significant to me in the sense of rebuilding myself, a date of life-changing, of trying to build something better from the broken pieces.

The first "16" to pique my interest was the date of my dad's birth. There's a lot of sorrow, and a lot of love mixed in with my dad. On one hand I wanted to grow up to be a cowboy just like my dad; to be able to fix anything, to be strong, to be self-reliant. On the other was the alcoholic who sat in the truck with his loaded gun ready to chase off any men who might try to take his wife, the man whose addiction lost the ranch, the man who told me on his cirrhosis-death bed that his biggest regret was "not being able to drink the way I used to."

Sobriety feels a bit like that confused ball sorrow and love. I am a different person when I have alcohol in my fuel tank; certainly not my best self (yet another mixed bag...unbridled rage feels like the power I so desperately wanted in my life...and bottomless sorrow leading to suicidal desperation), but alcohol was my first love, and as toxic as that relationship was, I grieve her. Sobriety allows for feeling sorrow in a much different way; more vivid, more precise, but the same can be said of love. And isn't sobriety an act of love, both for the self, and for those who love us?

I can't say that I got sober because I loved myself, but more because I knew the pain inside wasn't getting any better with what I was doing, and I was desperate enough to try something different, to break a family cycle. Some days sobriety is an act of self-love, but more it is an act of love for my loved ones...and because I have been sober, and done a shit-ton of work on my psyche I am able to love people furiously and I cannot stand to hurt them, and I do know that drinking would bring harm to the one's I love.

I first started trying to control my drinking when I was 17. I'd get weeks, months, even a year once, but once I started I couldn't modulate...all or nothing. And up until my last relapse, in spite of my attempts at sobriety, I never considered myself an alcoholic because I held my drinking up to my father, and "I certainly wasn't as bad as him." But when I relapsed that last time, I couldn't make it through a day without drinking; it was the first time I felt completely powerless to alcohol, and it scared me, but still I couldn't stop. The catalyst for this last round of sobriety occurred when I mixed an antidepressant with my booze, and was sure I was going to fucking die. I can still vividly remember lying awake in bed, eyes wide open, sure if I closed them I would never wake up again. Fear can be a great teacher. And after that night, I stacked one day on the next, until 25 years later, here I am.

I've never done sobriety pretty. I've never done recovery perfectly, whatever the fuck that means, but I've not been drunk in 25 years, and I've tried in that time to make myself the best version of myself I can be (again, not perfect, or pretty).

My sobriety anniversary always makes me think of my dad who didn't survive the battle with alcohol. I moved back in with my father right before I turned 17, and lived with him until his death, a few days after I turned 20. In those 3 years, even though he still drank (although significantly less) I was fortunate enough to build a relationship with my father, one that he was incapable of prior because he was passed out or too out of it to have any space for a relationship with anyone, including himself. And unfortunately, he was a man afraid of the word love, which meant I was too, and he died withoug us saying "I love you" to each other, and of my life's regrets that is the biggest because it was one thing I most definitely had control over. He was no saint, but rather a man with many flaws (like the rest of us) who dealt with his insecurities, and wounds by filling them with alcohol, and I miss him...and I miss the man and the father he had the potential to be.

Now that alcohol isn't an option, these days I alternate filling my wounds with food, spirituality, more food, acts of service, more food, fiercely loving my peeps, and more food. I'm trying to decide if the wounds are any smaller, or less fetid, but at the moment, in these uncertain times with my PTSD going full-tilt I really don't have the proper perspective to know. But I can tell you life is a little bit easier to manage, I don't live in the same terror I once did, and most importantly, I know love and I'm not afraid of it.

Trigger Warning AF: Suicidality and Violent Means

In order to interrupt the signal at it's source, I've been exploring why exactly it is that I want to suicide specifically by blowing my brains out (I did trigger warn you). What I know is that the suicidality, and the means are a complex knotted up ball of random bits of yarn, and there isn't one simple answer as such. I've pulled out a few bits...control, the ultimate boundary, the visceral/somatic satisfaction of it, the fact that there is no waiting around to be save/it's game over. There's still something about why I'm obsessed with the violent means of ending my life that I can't quite identify, and it's at the tip of my tongue so to speak. But I know there is something I am missing. Here a few bits that have floated to the surface as I pan for gold.

First off a little bit about me. I am physical...I like to give strong (not bone crushing) hugs, I like to rough house, my favorite hobbies are ones that engage my whole body I am every bit the earth element that sits in my 3 primary astrological houses. Because I am physical dominant, as a kid especially I dealt with anger, and frustration physically...if an older boy hit me, I hit the fucker back as hard as I could until the rage valve released; if I fucked something up, I threw shit. I need to physically discharge shit. So what happens when I'm in a situation where I can't physically discharge shit? It builds up, it becomes fetid...I no longer no the source of the rage, it turns inward, it fuels shame, and the only "sensible" relief is self-directed violence to discharge. (Oh yes, and I'm about 20 years "sober" from cutting). Rage is subtle, rage requires a big "boom", and what better boom than a bullet in my head.

When I was met with violence, I could match it, but when it was that subtle shit; coercion, physically overpowering me, or convincing me that I my perception of the experience was wrong... I didn't know how to deal with those kinds of attacks. And so the rage didn't get ignited until much later, and the source was harder to pin point...a house full of gas instead of a welding torch. and so the boundary-less rage cloud seeks to obliterate me, and seeks to destroy me; the rage, the violence gets turned inward.

The bullet in the brain is the ultimate release valve...for the shame, for the rage, for the violence that I couldn't do, for the "one more little thing that I just don't have the energy or focus to manage, for all of it. A gun feels like power, stopping it all feels like empowerment (remember kids, Feelings are NOT Facts!). The bullet stops it all. And yes, the bullet stops it ALL.

Don't worry dear reader, I am not sitting here with a gun in my hand (the pistols are still out of reach), and I am actually in a much better place which allows me to sort through the junk drawer so that I can better interrupt my thoughts when shit gets heavy again, or maybe if I do a good enough job of sorting through the junk drawer I won't find myself going so deep down the rabbit hole the next time an anniversary hits, or my PTSD gets flared up. And if you are struggling with thoughts of suicide, please reach out. Tomorrow might just be the best day of your life it you hang on...or maybe it will be the day after. Just hang on. I know shit is scary in the world right now, and life is changing for all of us, but we can get through this, we are stronger with you here.

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/   1-800-273-8255