The Day I Left (Poetry)

The Day I Left

You bought me with your words

To make me into who you wanted me to be

I was now your ball of clay

And it all began on that day.

Day after day with orders spoken in my ear

Words that burn and ones I can clearly hear

Laughing and smiling while you mold me

Please just let me be who I want to be.

“No you will do what I say!”

I screamed, “Someone help me!” But they were so far away.

Speaking a language called fear

I wish my cries someone could hear.

There was nowhere to go, I was trapped again.

Scared as I was I knew I couldn’t win.

I couldn’t feel but I could see it all being done.

By the expression on his face, I could also see he was having lots of fun.

Each fiery lash from your tongue would damage me more and more.

And later from the ceiling I saw myself lying fetal on that

cold bathroom floor.

The game was one of survival and that I could see.

He wasn’t even close to the end of hurting me.

Bits and pieces I shattered like shards of glass and he couldn’t see

I didn’t know how much it drained the life right out of me.

When the cops weren’t there you wish they were.

But when they got there with fingers pointed they say, “It was her!”

Their eyes met mine and I knew that I had just been put in check

Scared that if I said a word hands would again be put around my neck.

This situation was getting worse and unsure how it might end

He had isolated me away from everyone and now I had very few friends.

I couldn’t be honest and cry my tears because someone would know.

How I let him treat me like a dog and his “beck and call” ho.

I had to leave and get out somehow because safety was looking bleak

But to get out of a situation like this, behind his back I would sneak.

Many weeks later that day would finally come and I would feel no pain.

I was turning my back on my “master” and I left carrying with me years

of guilt and shame.

Walking another lonely road looking for someone to help

But being the abused and injured dog with every step I would yelp.

Champions hold their heads high even with injuries and pain

Because through their strength and courage others will also gain.

I walk away still going forward in the opposite direction from you.

Looking for someone to help me work

through the abuse that could’ve been prevented by you two.

You think that you defeated me all those times you saw red

Because the only reason I won’t keep going is if I’m lying dead

You did nothing about your trauma and yes that was your choice

But writing gives me something I’ve never had……A strong and confident voice.

By: Dana Landrum-Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019 darnold1975

Please Help Me!!!! (Poetry)

Please help me!!

I tried but I wasn’t enough

With every bite you just wouldn’t give up.

They never heard your words but i still do.

I wanted to please no one but you.

You raped me with your voice,

And I never had another choice.

Haunted by your abuse

I knew there was no use.

Try and try I did every day,

Slowly pieces of me would begin to fade away.

I sit here with razors and something to drink

Wanting to do something anything besides think.

But you return with every bite of food

And every decision.

Just like before with your narcissistic precision.

The memories are too much for me to bare

Everyone says, “just eat who cares?”

I do and with food comes many tears

With so much of your abuse from so many years.

I hate food and this is me pleading,

Please stop and let me learn about eating.

You’ve had your turn And now the time is mine.

It’s time I leave your mean ass behind.

You’ve taken part of my soul with which you played with like a toy.

But all it was was one of your narcissistic ploys.

You tried to mold me into something I could never be.

My cries are loud and screaming, Please someone help me!!

By: Dana Landrum-Arnold

#Thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019 darnold1975

Life With The Plant

“It doesn’t have a high potential for abuse, and there are very legitimate medical applications. In fact, sometimes Marijuana is the only thing that works… It is irresponsible not to provide the best care we can as a medical community, care that could involve Marijuana. We have been terribly and systematically misled for nearly 70 years in the United States, and I apologize for my own role in that.”

—- Dr. Sanjay Gupta / Neurosurgeon

Where our society and medical professions have advanced from the days of lobotomies, bloodletting, hydrotherapies and many other dehumanizing ways of treating mental illness, many attitudes and stigmas still remain the same. And still, there are those affiliated with religion that seem to think that mental illness is punishment for moral transgressions. And yes, I have also been told that even though trauma induced, my alters are actually demons that do not deserve a voice but should be cast out instead. I chalk a lot of this up to ignorance but still the target was me.

While living in Albuquerque Mel and I would come to realize, unbeknownst to us at the time, the complications that living with a mental illness would entail. I had lived with severe depression and anxiety since childhood which few people from school days realize. Even as a child and teenager I was well liked and was one of the favored clowns much like today. Before we left Mississippi there was very clear evidence that something was definitely wrong. Finally, breaking free of a 14 year abusive relationship just seemed to complicate life more than either of us could’ve ever imagined.

Albuquerque was a place where we could break free from the overly conservative south to have a relationship and family, or so we thought. With each passing day, though, my “quirkiness” would soon take on a life of its own. By the time our oldest, Marshall, was born it was like the flood gates had been opened. We were already seeing a very loyal and trusted therapist. I was now losing time for days and weeks. I was hallucinating and becoming increasingly suicidal and my behavior was becoming more erratic and at times very scary. I had also started becoming very aggressive which led to horrible rages. The scariest part about it all was that I had no memory of these things happening.

The level of trauma that I held within me was now bursting at the seams to a point that I couldn’t contain it. The harder I tried, the more I failed. I was seeing a psychiatrist and had run the gamut of psych meds and their subsequent unpleasant side effects trying to find some combination that could provide me, Mel and our new little baby some relief. I had been given several different diagnoses that never quite seemed to fit. And each time I would have to be hospitalized the re-traumatization just grew in intensity.

I eventually became toxic from all of the meds and was seen in the emergency room because the doctors thought that my kidneys were shutting down or that I might’ve had a stroke. I was admitted to the hospital but the next morning the doctor that came to see me was yet another psychiatrist. Again, it seemed, no one wanted to believe us. I politely told him he could leave and that I was going to leave as well since nothing was being done and the bill was going higher and higher. Mel and I left the hospital completely defeated and our trust in the system that was designed to help was becoming depleted.

Mel would soon begin capturing some of my strange behaviors on video in order to show the doctors exactly what was happening. Doctors and other professionals still didn’t seem to believe us despite the captured evidence. No one believed that it was possible to have these types of behaviors and to not be able to remember doing them. When Mel would show me the videos and tell me other things that I had done, I was appalled. There’s no possible way that I was treating her or our new baby this way. In some instances, after seeing the footage, I would collapse with grief.

After returning to my psychiatrist following the debacle in the hospital he said, “Hey, how about we try the medications again?” I simply replied, “You’re crazier than I am if you think I’m going through that shit again. I almost died from your pharmaceutical poisons.” Psych meds didn’t help they seem to complicate and exacerbate my symptoms but most of the time left me feeling “robotic” and unable to feel anything. That’s when I was put on medical cannabis and it has been a lifesaver every since. Anytime, I’ve had to be hospitalized for mental health issues I ALWAYS refuse the medications unless absolutely necessary like for sleep. The meds have never helped me because most of the time I feel so bad from the side effects of the adjustment period that I’ll just quit taking them. They simply made me a “chemistry experiment.”

For the first time in my life, I was able to have some type of quality of life while we searched endlessly for someone that could treat my complex traumatic past. Cannabis has its limitations just like any other medications. But, for once, something was actually working and “Big Pharma” just couldn’t compete with nature. These days I don’t ask for permission or have the willingness to wait on an already corrupt government and the decisions of the narcissist clown that currently runs the country to tell me when it’s ok to have a quality of life. I just simply do what I have to do to survive the best way I know how and most psych meds are still not a part nor will they ever be a part of that formula ever again.

I have taken much criticism for using cannabis as a medication to treat PTSD. Again, it’s ignorance that seems to fuel these criticisms. Until you have almost from synthetic medications then maybe an alternative way doesn’t seem feasible. Even as a recovering addict I have yet to have a single problem related to addiction with cannabis. Hands down this plant has and is continuing to save my life from some incredibly debilitating symptoms.

For some people cannabis seems to be the only answer. I take a medication that can replace any combination of psych meds. There are those times, though, when symptoms seem to just shoot through the medicinal ceiling of the plant. And this is when I will usually have a backup plan for anxiety meds and sleep meds. Some people mistakenly think that medical cannabis “cures” PTSD. I politely tell them that it’s a medication just like any other medication to treat the paralyzing “symptoms” of the disorder only it’s much safer and works better for me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the ability to “unbreak the plate” of the traumas that caused the PTSD to begin with. You still have to do therapy. You still can’t go around the issue to reach a resolution. Painful as it might be the only way for that to happen is to work through it. Cannabis helps with the very frightening flashbacks, migraines, insomnia, anxiety and any other unpleasant symptom that can lead to suicidal thoughts and behaviors. So while the presidential pumpkin and his posse are busy playing politics and searching for the next horrible hairdo. I’ve got therapy and a lifetime of trauma to work through. I and many others don’t have the luxury of being able to wait for them to get finished rolling around in the bed with “Big Pharma” and pass federal legislation so that this medication is legal everywhere. I, not anyone else, will die from my PTSD symptoms unless they’re controlled. Sadly, many people, as well as, returning soldiers have died by their own hand because of lack of access to a medication that can save lives in so many different ways.

I will always back this highly stigmatized and demonized plant that has helped give me some type of quality of life despite some people’s ignorance about the topic. My wife will tell you that being put on the cannabis program has saved my life. And even though functionality still fluctuates heavily sometimes from the disorder itself, it’s still so much better than it could be and has been thanks to a plant called exactly what it is….weed. Cannabis has had such a positive impact on my life that living without it seems inconceivable. And the only side effects I have to worry about these days are sleepy, happy and hungry.

#Thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019 darnold1975

I AM RESPONSIBLE

“Hate is the complement of fear and narcissists like being feared.

It imbues them with an intoxicating sensation of omnipotence.”
― Sam Vaknin, Malignant Self-Love: Narcissism Revisited

The term “Responsible” has never been a word that most people use to describe me especially in my teen years. There are those teens who are very responsible driving, their studies and extracurricular activities. I personally got caught up in the comedy of the situation from start to finish even if it was actually more dangerous than funny. As a teenager when my well thought out teen ideas would emerge like going to bonfire parties with fellow classmates and upper classmen and seeing how many times and how much we can throw up in one night without dying; or driving like a bat out of hell with gasoline panties on down what was known as “Thrill Hill” outside the Petal, MS city limits at speeds where those that drove down it should’ve all met our demise; or and this is the best one…..we as a softball “team” on the eve of a “hot as crotch” practice we thought it would be a great idea to get drunk as a team would help with team unity. Guess who DID NOT buy that explanation? Nope…as I recall the next day we ran, and ran and ran and ran until your hangover was gone or there was no more puke left to let loose. I, for one, never drank the night before a practice EVER again. I’m usually the one cheering on such outrageous ideas and had already begun planning jail commissary meals made with Ramen Noodles as somewhat of a “celebratory being handcuffed” gesture if needed. Guilty your honor!!!!!!

The thought of coming in contact and being held emotionally hostage for the next 14 years never crossed my mind. My main goals, at the time, was to stay as high as I could and not eat. Both somehow seemed to soothe my heart from my 8th grade disaster only a couple of years prior. But now we as a student body and a community had been gut punched by the disappearance and alleged murder of our classmate Angela Freeman. As I’ve mentioned before our graduating high school class and subsequent classes were pummeled with tragedies. I felt like the combination of school and home where death and illnesses were always imminent in my daddy’s large family. We just never got to recover from one thing before something else happened. I was beyond mood swings. I was like a mood theme park. I just remember feeling different, alone and trapped. Obviously, my theory about being able to do WHATEVER I wanted to do, as an adult, also had some flaws waiting for their time to appear.

When I jumped full body into adulthood before my time that’s when I understood “keeping secrets” at the fullest. I literally was taught so many lessons about life, at that time, that I couldn’t sit back to study and understand them. I was busy learning all about malignant narcissism without knowing the full meaning. And since this was prior to when I decided to go back to college, I also thought that domestic violence was all about physical abuse. I was busy surviving and not really knowing what that meant either. I knew that I never saw or heard things between my parents like I heard every moment of every day with him. Heck, I just thought this was the reason people were so miserable being married. I thought this was just the way things were suppose to be. Oh how my immaturity and naivety was drunk driving my way down the highway of life at that time. I still look back in total astonishment at how I made it through the early days of abuse.

In the late 80s and early 90s, abuse against children and how it would affect their ability to function as an adult was not known or seen as important. And the ability to go to therapy was more of a luxury item rather than one of necessity. Affordability was practically nil to many children and families. I would also be willing to bet that there were no mental health benefits on an insurance policy either. So, for me and other children and teens that needed the help early on would not and could not be provided with the help we so desperately needed.

“Stay away from lazy parasites, who perch on you just to satisfy

their needs, they do not come to alleviate your burdens, hence,

their mission is to distract, detract and extract,

and make you live in abject poverty.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson

I’ve been told many times that the teacher that abused me was treated the same way by her father. My ex-husband and his brother were horribly physically and emotionally abused by their father. The excuse that has always been given when I asked him about the abuse was justified by him saying, “We might’ve been scared of him but we weren’t out running the streets getting drunk or high either.” I could also see very clearly how the abuse had affected him and how he still feared his father each time we went to visit him. I was told what I could and could not say or do around his father. And I always found it strange that he and his brother called his father by his first name rather than “father” or “daddy.” The clearest point of view I saw about the abuse they went through was by how I was treated by them. Both of the grown little abused boys over the years had also become their father. These 3 people that I’m talking about were not “crazy” they were and still are just mean. And to my knowledge have never had a day of therapy in their lives. What they did do successfully was to perpetuate onto me and other people just like it was done to them. And they go through life never having faced their on responsibility in acknowledging how the abuse affects and continues to hurt people through their aberrant, coercive aggressive, threatening and other overt and covert behaviors. This works down their intended target until the individual believes their lies as though it was part of the gospel. And then ANYTHING that goes wrong is their victim’s fault no matter what. Every weekend the ex-husband would go play golf as his favorite pastime. I use to pray hoping that he played well. If not, somehow it was my fault that he didn’t play well. People have asked me many times why I didn’t leave sooner. The problem lies once they get you mentally to believe all of the lies that they tell you it rewires your brain and you wake up one day and everything you use to believe about yourself and the world has now become what they think and believe about the world. Your beliefs were stupid and you were too dumb to have your own belief system anyway. Therefore, we cling to that relationship with everything we have because being without them would mean total annihilation for us or so we believe.

Here’s the whole point of this particular blog. These people and their behaviors are characteristic of transgenerational trauma in both families. However, they have all chosen to pass this abuse on and do nothing about it. With the traumatic life that I’ve lived, I have chosen to do some very emotionally painful therapy in order to stop the cycle of abuse since my abusers didn’t have the guts to do their own work. They might can make it continue wherever they are now. In my family, though, the cycle of abuse ends right here. I have been carrying the abuse of the boys that molested me. I have been carrying the abuse of my ex-husband and brother from their father. And I have been carrying the abuse of the teacher that always has a “I just caught the stomach virus” look to greet you with. Plus, I have been carrying trauma and abuse unrelated to them and that’s my own stuff. Your baggage that I’ve carried for you for so many years will be waiting for you at the nearest dumpster where it belongs. Ya’ll have had control of my past and present but the future is MINE.

I can’t even begin to fathom our children having the same fears that I had as a child, teen and adult. And I would run in to rescue my sweet Mel if I saw any signs of this and that’s exactly what I’ve done. Moving to Texas is exactly how I was able to rescue them thus far from the abuse. I looked up one day and I was saying some of the exact same hateful stuff that my ex-husband said to me. I have 3 people desperately wanting their other mommy and spouse to be able to come back together and to function as the family and couple like we set out to be. And for that I AM RESPONSIBLE. The one who was “too stupid to think for herself” was taking very detailed notes those years with you. And once you study a system and the way it works you can also find the flaws in the system. The night I got up and walked out I had just beaten the “ALMIGHTY NARCISSIST” at this own game.

“How starved you must have been that my heart became a meal for your ego.”

—Amanda Torroni

#thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019June 19, 2019 darnold1975

The Collar (Poetry)

The Collar

When I was with you, you made it seem

Like you would always treat me as your queen.

You set the line and patiently waited

Wanting to see if I would take the bait.

I took that bait as soon as it hit the water

He was whispering under his breath

“HaHa! Now I’ve got her.”

A few years later the child bride would be of age.

And this was what he needed to secure her fate.

She didn’t smile much on her wedding day.

Because at the altar she knew she was making a very big mistake.

Instead of a ring she was given a collar

It was suppose to make her obey and if not she would holler

It kept her in line with him at the controls

He told her what she could eat and where she could go.

Maybe on their Honeymoon he would find a way to chill out

My assumption was wrong and that very night she would find out;

because he told her she would kick him complete out

That night she would hear that her teammate was dead

But instead of hugs she was forcibly raped.

She learned how to cry in ways that he never saw.

And many times he never saw her tears fall.

She wasn’t his queen nor his bride

Because all she wanted was to run and hide

From his abuse she would understand a new life.

One where orders were obey and eggshells were walked on day and night

She did not want this life of hell

But this was the life where she chose to dwell

His hateful words and scary threats

She doesn’t understand why he does this.

She could never do right so how can I leave.

With tears in her eyes She screamed, Stop it! Stop it! Stop it please!

“It’s Your Fault!! You So Stupid…..You can’t do anything right!!!

Oh my God how do I leave?! Help was nowhere in sight.

“When she gets enough she’ll finally leave” is what they would say

They didn’t understand that she had wanted to leave long ago

“You’re my bitch and all four you go.”

And I made you my legal ho.

I was nothing to you but a junkyard dog.

The door to my freedom Somehow managed to swing open.

But all I could do was sit in my house that became my prison

I don’t care that you called me hog

But what I had really become was one of Pavlov’s Dogs.

Many screamed get out and go

I couldn’t bring myself to leave him because that was all that I know.

It was comfortable because I knew that routine.

And I bet you guessed that I seldom was ever treated like a queen.

I thought long and hard on making a plan

I had to hurry just as fast as I can

the time came to leave him like many times before.

But this time I would keep my eyes straight ahead

and not look back at that door.

He followed close behind to my car and called me everything in the book.

And with every word he said I trembled and shook.

I’m leaving him and I must be crazy.

I would never again be called fat and lazy.

I could also remove that horrible shock collar.

And as I left him for the final time I was was terribly scared

Because I just walked out of my prison without a collar;

Finally free to eat what I want to eat and to Go anywhere I wanted to go.

By: Dana Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 18, 2019June 18, 2019 darnold1975

Live To Fight Another Day

“It might not seem like it now, but this is more than just a fight.”

—-Adonis Creed, Creed 2

The last couple of weeks have brought some very intense emotional days and nights. I’ve manage to, once again, keep the smiles and laughter present and to hopefully not let on that I have been feeling every emotional strand that holds my psyche together. Sometimes the emotions are not just one but all of them at the same time. The toll, both physically and emotionally, that these intense emotions can take on a body and mind words cannot do justice to try and replicate. The only description that I can find, at this moment, is a slow, creeping death. And these are the times when I begin to question every decision and mistake made in my life including whether staying in Texas is still the best decision.

Lately, the battles with my behavioral addictions has been the ones to seemingly take me over. The battles between my ears are crippling. I’ve battled anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember. Within the last few years depression seems to have intensified so much that I don’t even know the name to give it. And my anxiety has me wondering why I don’t have a cardiac “crash cart” available on a moment’s notice. Also, the fight for every bite of food and the urges of self-harm never stop talking to me.

Coach Nick Kolinsky told our team time after time, “Little things make big things happen.” He was obviously talking about us working as a team. He reminded us that as players if we do our jobs fielding, batting and running individually that we are doing our part to help the “team” as a whole. I’m now much older and his words about working as a team still ring true. The sometimes little irritating therapy assignments are all for one goal…….FUNCTIONALITY. Not only individually but again as a mother and a spouse. And as a well oiled system.

Then there are the times that I get buried in questioning my diagnosis. I’ll still try to find a way out of my condition being true. But within minutes one or more of the symptoms return only to confirm that the diagnosis is, in fact, correct. I think I’ve questioned this diagnosis since the day I was told that I met criteria.

The last few months has been filled with neck surgery, back surgery and very soon a hysterectomy. With all this stress and others my eating disorders thought that it was a perfect time to raise their ugly heads higher and with sometimes an unbearable strength. If I look at this opponent as a whole it becomes too overwhelming to think about challenging its poisonous power. Don’t get me wrong I’ve been struggling for years with this big, smelly beast. Life with ED (eating disorders) has gotten stronger over the years. I know what to expect on each level of starvation. The pain of anorexia and bulimia I cannot explain. But there have been many days lately where just lying in my bed hurt. The dehydration and everything that comes with it like dry mouth, cramping muscles, stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting (there’s no food but there is bile), dry skin, brittle hair, lack of energy and this time it was a good ol’ case of thrush. And along with it the added messages of those who spoke venomous comments to me as a teen and an adult are on some kind of marquee being seen and spoken one after another. I usually lie in my bed crying about having to make simple food decisions. My ex-husband would call this immature, senseless and childish self- loathing. And for a minute I try to pull myself together. My effort would be for nothing when the towering thoughts about how everything about food and body image is bad unless he takes total control to tell me what I can and cannot have to eat. Those painful thoughts and sometimes realistic situations leave me paralyzed not knowing what decision is the “right one” so that I don’t get in trouble. All in the name of “not wanting to have a fat wife.”

“You would be as big as this house, Dana, if you didn’t have someone managing your food for you. You’re just too dumb to make decisions about healthy food, I guess” he would say daily. “Remember this…..” he would say. “I’m not living with a fat woman! Go look at yourself in the mirror and tell me if you can even see what I’m talking about.” I would go to the nearest mirror where I could see down to my knees and look at everything about myself. In my eyes and apparently his too, I looked like the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man from the original Ghostbusters. I could see how disgusting I looked or at least I better be able to see it. I would again, as I had many times, gone back to where he was waiting and told him, whether I did or not, that I saw the problems areas on my body and that I would fix it.

Obviously, that was another time and another place. But every time I try to put a piece of food in my mouth, I hear those words screaming at me. Day after day and night after night his torture emotionally was more than I could take. I would nod like I understood but I would soon lose what he was saying and me and my brain were elsewhere. Nevertheless, I would do my best to follow food orders and always in sequential order came the secretive self-harm behaviors. The combination of surgeries and trying to deal with the trauma of my eating disorders has been difficult at best.

There have been times when I just needed some cry time. The time again when I lie in my bed cry and hating the things that were done to me. “I don’t want these problems!” Are the words my heart screams as each painful word rolls down my cheek. ” I want everything I fought so hard for and loved so much. ” I wake up every morning pissed off that I have to face another day. I want the road I was already on to be successful academically and professionally. I want my family that I’ve tried so hard to preserve. Divorcing him was the easy part. The frustrating part is facing it all again daily after I’ve survived it once. ” I shouldn’t have to be doing all of this! I didn’t do this to myself! Someone make them pay so there’s some type of justice is sought for all the things done.”

My tears continue to stream down my face as I write this because I do remember so vividly the abuse that happened daily concerning food and body image and how powerful his criticism were and at times still are. Mistakes for me are the “end of the world” and that includes food, body image and food choices. I trust my dear coach despite the pain. I continue to follow her guidance and know that these days are the ones where I have to trust that she’s still taking me down the right path. She hasn’t failed me yet or led me astray in any way. So you see the first quote is right in that this difficult time is more than just a fight. It’s an ongoing war with myself. These days I simply LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY.

“He who fights and runs away
May live to fight another day;
But he who is battle slain
Can never rise to fight again ”
― Oliver Goldsmith

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

What December 4th Means To Me…..

” Today, on her birthday, I am teary eyed about the other woman

who also remembers that today, 43 years ago, she gave life

to a child that is calling me “Momma.”

—Unknown

I must admit that my birthdays for a long time have carried with them a dark cloud. As a child, I remembered them being like most kids’ birthdays. Cake, ice cream, presents and if you were lucky a party at McDonald’s complete with a tour to the store’s freezer just to find out that it was cold. A paper birthday hat and the playground equipment that was fun only in spring or fall seasons because you didn’t dare play on it in during the humid summers of the Deep South for fear of being burned alive by the stifling hot metal. The consequences of being a child playing on metal playground equipment would remind you that next time maybe you shouldn’t.

In my teen years, birthdays usually consisted of The Petal Lady Panther Basketball Classic. Softball season would’ve ended by now and we were well into our basketball season. There were plenty of local “social parties” complete with a bonfire, alcohol and loud country music. I was also busy trying to fill an emptiness in myself that I couldn’t identify. I just knew that emotionally I hurt. I began treating that hurt with any substance or behavior that seem to soothe that pain even a little bit. Little did I know that I was already in the death grip of addiction by the time I graduated high school. The combination of both the physical and mental stress of addiction for a mere 4 years would take the dream of playing college ball of any kind away.

As a late teen and early adulthood, I wouldn’t only see the dichotomy in a person’s behavior. I would often times feel the shift in his behavior before it actually happened. It was also on some of those same scary nights that my birthday December 4th would fall. Apparently, there was an unwritten rule about what men, specifically my ex-husband, were entitled to on any day but celebrations of any kind were a guarantee.

This “emptiness” was now identified as a void. And the void was the one thing that has haunted me daily since middle school….my adoption. The abusers in my life have always made sure that this particular topic’s wounding got a little deeper with their ability to hurt without touching. Each year that passes it makes this time of the year just a little bit more painful. I’ve always seemed in some way to seek out the love and acceptance of my birth mom that I’ll never receive. She, unfortunately, does not have it to give to me to satisfy that insatiable need that never seems to be filled.

In the process of searching, finding and being rejected again and years of abuse I’ve pretty much walled my heart off to most people including close friends and family. Each year it gnaws away at me until the thought of getting close to someone scares me so bad that I reach out and destroy that relationship. Now In my 40’s I walk around with such a thick and, at times, aggressive coat of armor that I run off a lot of people before they get a chance to really know me past my silly sense of humor. Several people know that my birthday is off limits in regards to contacting me. Social media is turned off and my phone is put on “Do Not Disturb” making it virtually impossible to contact me unless you’re here in person. Very grumpy I can be on this the one of the heaviest days of grieving for me all year long.

Coach has the uncanny ability to get me to do “therapeutic assignments” that can have me stomping around like a toddler who was given the wrong colored cup. I have the ability to act just like that when I think my unhealthy ideas are much better and/or more fun. This birthday would be different though. I had to be receptive to her ideas and be trusting enough in her as a person and as a professional for her guidance to be remotely acknowledged on this topic. And by the end of the day after coach stirred the fairy dust and a few of my own tears fell, for the first time in many years when the sun went down my smile didn’t. It was genuine happiness and…..well….it was different but it was nice.

I guess what made the day even more special was celebrating my birthday with our oldest son, Marshall who turned 7 years old yesterday. I never understood how my birth mom felt. I heard the painful words she said to me. But when I laid eyes on our beautiful first born, I’m glad that I don’t know what it’s like to be her. Because I have two beautiful little superhero, “man cub” children that call me Mom and I get to call them Sons.

I can still say with much assurance that the impact my adoption has had on my life has been tremendous in both good and bad ways. There are many tears left to cry on this topic. And much more emotional healing that needs to occur because coach does more than blows a whistle…..she plants seeds.

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

Tears Of A Child (Poetry)

The Tears of a Child

I came into this world screamin’ and cryin’

Never knowing that the world would be lyin’.

Big hands that touched with searing pain

And it would only be for their perverted gain.

Surrounded by four walls I would cry alone

Until she opened the door and I was already gone

Locked inside I screamed, “Don’t Leave! Help me!”

But I would never be granted any reprieve.

A Child bride I would soon become

The tears I cried inside were many but to the outside there were none

I would defend you and say that life was grand

But you would crush me without even using your hands.

The venom you spewed I would also come to use

Innocent family and friends….If they only knew.

That little girl screaming for help and they didn’t have a clue.

That which the little girl is surviving might make her turn forever blue.

“Mommy! Mommy!” were the words she always longed to hear.

But the innocent screams rang so loud and clear.

She looked for the one that helped rescue her

But she was another one gone.

How does she handle it now in this world all alone?

She screams, “Mommy! Mommy! ” from somewhere deep inside.

She was always taught to keep quiet and hide.

She also longs for the one that gave her life

But she’ll never meet those precious boys or her beautiful wife.

This child she’s full of anger and hates most things she sees.

The words they can’t hear are her hungering cries of “Help Me, Please!”

Please help me and don’t leave me alone.

But again she looks up to see they’re all gone.

She keeps those tears buried deep inside

Just like when she was taught to run and hide.

If they knew and could only see

These tears of a child that continue to haunt me.
By: Dana Landrum-Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019June 16, 2019 darnold1975

The Party Of One (Poetry)

The Party of One

This was the day for 9 months that I longed to see

You were the one that was meant for me.

Instead I was thrown away and forever shunned

I began life solo as the little party of one.

I soon had a new mommy and daddy

To look at me I appeared very happy

And then the boys’ hands touched me and it was no fun

for the little girl was the party of one.

You were there to help educate our minds

not to tell us, “You’ll Never Be Anything!” time after time.

You lied and told them I was disrespectful and having fun

But the only party I was attending was the party you reserved for just one.

I took you as my husband and you took me as your wife

But what you had in store was not a beautiful life.

You monitored me daily who i saw; what I did and what I ate

All I did was develop more and more silent hate.

I did what you said but it was still my fault

Do you have any idea what lessons you taught?

You made me your dog and to you it was fun

If only they could see you brightly shining at this party of one.

I’ve tried and the answer is consistently…fail

I can’t make it as a friend, daughter or mom anywhere

along the trail.

I long to hear from you just one more time saying,

“I’m here and together we’ll prevail.”

But the grief is so heavy without you that I feel like I’m in hell.

I’ve wished for life to be anything but this

I’ve already fought so hard just to be here and for that I’m pissed.

You all stripped me of everything good and it’s seen everyone

And though we are many, we are still the Party of One.
By: Dana Landrum-Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

The Lost Child (Poetry)

People have seen me as feral

And needing to be whipped more as a child

One thing is for sure…..

She needs to be tamed and not allowed to run wild.

A gentle giant came into her life,

And taught her fundamentals and the power of a

smile.

To never give up is how an athlete lives,

Direction received by a lost child.

You broke her down brick by brick until she was stripped

almost to zero.

But you forgot the one thing that wouldn’t stop…a beating heart

that was looking for another hero.

The lies, humiliation and manipulation cut like blades on the arms of a child

How do you tame this child running wild?

Prince Charming is how he portrayed himself

But she wouldn’t be put up on a shelf.

For the bricks already torn down exposing her soul

Would further be destroyed and she would be left out in the cold.

Tears were seen as childish and weak

How do you hide that which hurts so deep?

Internally you step back and let your “new friends” deal with this creep.

Do what you have to do but don’t make a peep.

Getting an education would lead to freedom they said.

But no one saw what he had already done to her naive and vulnerable head.

“You’ll never be anything without me” he would say

She left him with the last bit of energy she could muster and got out that

very day.

Brave as she was most never knew

To leave and stay gone never to return to the hellish days with him, for she

was finally through.

Back to the world and running wild

She would still need guidance but only through love for this lost child.

Her ROCK she’s known for several years said, “some people can’t see the

beauty of a person” and with that she shed some of her first tears.

What would she do now with the freedom of a new life?

She would be introduced to her soul mate that she would later take as her wife.

Her passion she would do but not for long

The grip he still has on her was not yet gone.

Someone else she was becoming and started to resemble him

They would both feel the pains of having to sink or swim.

Two little boys would be the apples of their eyes

But when her ROCK disappeared she couldn’t silence her cries.

For she would be floundering with no direction and again running wild.

With a broken heart and hurting soul of a lost child.

How could she possibly heal from so many quickly leaving?

It appeared that she would be setting out on another road of more

painful grieving.

The decision was made to start completely over again

Not knowing what would happen or if she would ever again have friends.

Her life became a floor surrounded by four walls

In another state she would once again walk these new, dark halls.

For again she’s living a life and running fast and wild,

But her new coach would see past the actions and into the

heart of a lost child.
By Dana Landrum-Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

Footsteps To Freedom

Footsteps to Freedom

“It is fear that reinforces the walls we build, people are afraid to be swayed from their convictions, afraid to question their moral instincts and expose themselves to ideas that may challenge the fabric of their entire existence, but what are we if we are not seeking to better ourselves?”
― Aysha Taryam

During this month of incredibly intense therapy one of the things that I’ve come to realize is how terrified I am of change no matter the reasons. Over the years I have become accustomed to people naming my limitations and just accepting them. Being controlled for so long has created for me a life of imprisonment even though the doors of freedom were opened many years ago.

Eleven years ago I was granted the freedom legally from a very long abusive relationship where everything I did, said and felt were controlled by someone else. The control enforced for so many years was done so covertly that even I was blinded to my own reality. It was always disguised as “I’m just trying to make you a better person.” When in reality he did nothing to help make me a better person. He simply was destroying what was left of a good person. I was slowly mirroring his dysfunctional and abusive self through his personally designed program. I didn’t like this change because it hurt me in every way possible and to not accept it, as difficult as it was, could’ve led to my demise.

I was given gifts and compliments both in front of others and behind closed doors. What was never seen, though, was the high price of his momentary kindness. Anytime I was complimented or given gifts especially at holiday times or after arguments was then completely overshadowed by his abuse sometimes only hours later. What this taught me to do was to be aware when things were too “ok” that something bad would happen or would be taken away. Maybe this was his sick justification for his niceness. He seems like a nice guy to those that know him but behind the steel doors of my personal imprisonment to him on an intimately emotional level was a block of ice of a human being that cares about nothing but his own gratification in whatever way he can achieve it.

Since our divorce I still can’t accept comments, gifts or any kind gesture without thinking, “What do you really want for your kindness because everything comes with a price?” What I have been conditioned to believe is that if things get “too good” or a time without chaos then he would, in turn, take those moments of kindness and hurt me with them. Therefore, I have always felt that if these same nice events happen then I must destroy them because it doesn’t hurt as bad if I’m the one doing the sabotaging. This also affects my relationships with people. I don’t mind having superficial relationships but if I start forming relationships that are deeper then I panic and start pushing the person away until they want to leave. I have become so accustomed to this that I have learned to disconnect emotionally so quickly and easily that most times I can’t even feel the pain of the loss.

The essence of a therapeutic journey is about CHANGE. Maladaptive behaviors are very much a comfort zone and the thought of changing the things that continue to remove happiness and consequently leave me with a life unfulfilled and empty terrifies me. The easy solution to most would be simply stop doing what you’re doing and things with get better. And, truly, I wish it was that easy. I don’t love the behaviors and mental craziness that comes with it all. What I do love is the consistency that lies with what I understand and what seems to make sense even if only I can make sense of it. What would and could the possibilities of my life be if I were not chained to my compulsions, addictions and yes even his control and deadly way of life? The truth is that I don’t know. So instead of reaching out to grab a new way of life, I timidly sit back and watch everything positive and beautiful in my life disappear piece by piece. This is not something I enjoy. This is something that I’ve come to expect because this reality is something that I know.

Expecting good things is something so incredibly foreign to me. The cage door of my cell was opened but because I’ve been so accustomed to power and control that’s the only way I’ve known how to live. Without being told exactly what to do I feel completely out of control and very unsafe. In a way, I still feel like I need the one thing I feared about him…HIS control. Most all other forms of control in regards to authority figures and institutions, as well as, other social situations will most definitely bring out the werewolf in me. I become very aggressive in many instances. Given the opportunity to leave this continued imagined control which still seems to feel like he still presently oversees and I’ll stay put and wait for my next order. This has me very confused and above all frustrated. The dichotomy of these decisions leave me cowering and in tears.

As his child bride with him 19 years my senior, he set out to raise a wife. I tried endlessly to become that which was envisioned which was the picture of perfection. I had no idea, at the time, that I would be constantly chasing and trying to achieve something that never could be achieved. Years later I still find myself chasing this same perfectionistic life and image but now in solitude. I have continued to allow him to be the overseer of my daily activities and thoughts from which I have yet to be able to break free. I am still chained to my “master” in so many ways. And seemingly by choice I continue to let him rob me of a beautiful life with my wife, children, friends and family. The harsh reality of this weighs very heavily on me.

My “inside guys” are seeing and feeling this push for this realization and the action that comes with it. Is there resistance? Ummmm……am I breathing? All they can seem to understand right now is fear and that is always considered unsafe in any situation. Thirty years of teens being able to live life as they dysfunctional please. And 20+ years of adults not having voices and/or choices now being told they can create a life that WE choose not that HE chooses. This is one concept that’s going to take practice even if, for now, it’s just about the radical idea that things can be different.

The need for change is why I moved here. The importance of change is why I stay even though my heart wants me to run back to Mel and our boys. But the fear of change is what torments me worse than the memories and images. Who will I be if I’m not defined by outside influences and behaviors? With my tireless coach’s help and seemingly endless compassion maybe one day I’ll have those answers.

I’m still moving in a forward direction but I’m shaking in my boots. And it seems with every step forward a new tear drops. Painful as this process is it’s still not as painful as the words and actions from the one who caused the tears to begin with. Me and a certain teen see this process as “Footsteps to Freedom.”

“The secret to happiness is freedom… And the secret to freedom is courage.”

—Thucydides

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

“10-4 Control We’re 10-8”

“One single word – like EMERGENCY, or love – can

revise a whole night. A whole life.”

— Alena Graedon

Several months ago I wrote a blog titled No Thanks Needed. This was one call that I worked while in the Emergency Medical Service (EMS) field. Let’s face it, no one calls for an ambulance or seeks out any helping professional because things are going great in their lives. Likewise, I didn’t seek out counseling because functionality was my No. 1 attribute. I began seeking counseling because I was being tormented though it was not voiced at the time.

The title of this post “10-4 Control We’re 10-8” I have said hundreds of times while working on the ambulance. It simply means, “Yes we are enroute.” I’m sure this varies from service to service depending on the differences in 10 codes and signal numbers nationwide but you get the general idea. There is no possible way to do justice through words what working in this type of job carries physically, mentally, spiritually and just about any other area of a human being’s existence.

As a teenager, I had my heart set on being a police officer. Then I determined that since I loved doing drugs that being a police officer was probably not the best option. However, I had the need and want to be in some type of helping profession. At a young 20 years of age the thought of going to school 6 years for a counseling degree was nowhere near the table. Finding out that I could go to EMT school for 6 months, however, was. I was beyond excited and totally immersed myself in my studies and training. My husband wasn’t real excited because the pay was extremely low in that career. But for me there was a higher calling, the want and need to help people.

I studied myself silly those 6 months and learned everything I possibly could about this exciting field that I saw myself loving naturally. We were told about different types of scenes that would be a high likelihood that we would encounter. However, nothing could ever prepare me for the things that I would actually see and experience. In my personal life, though, the grasp of the evil hands of abuse seemed to become tighter and tighter. He pretended to support my career decision but that’s all that it was….PRETEND.

In February 1997, fresh out of EMT school and newly married I got my first truck assignment making a meager $4.95/hr with the local ambulance service. I worked for an ALS (Advanced Life Support Service) which required that a paramedic to also be on the truck. This meant that the drugs given and additional skills that would be required were higher than my scope of practice. Some of these skills would include intubation, cardiac monitoring, starting IV’s, giving narcotics and various other skills that I as an EMT-Basic could not legally do.

Performing as an athlete required split second decisions but now it was not about winning ballgames it was about someone’s life. Mistakes now had a much higher price tag. The one thing I always tried to be as an EMT was humble. There were those that had a very narcissistic view of their position and thought of themselves as a god. This was not a stance of mere confidence but a stance that nauseated me to my core. Most of the time I would see this in paramedics which we would then refer to them as “Paragods.” Working alongside confidence rather than blatant narcissism was where you could really learn and working with confident paramedics I did learn.

We were taught in school about the importance of “self-care” while in this career that would be crucial to making it past the national burnout rate which, at that time, was only 5 years. Included in the self-care education was the importance of EAP counseling after a bad call or mass casualty. The daily stress of the job and the ongoing abuse at home ensured that I would never come close to that 5 year mark. There are laws now that regulate the amount of hours that a crew can work without downtime but then apparently there weren’t. It was nothing to have to work 24, 36 or a 48 hour shift with very minimal sleep and/or food. We were commonly called “Trauma Junkies” because it seemed the more horrific the scene the better as bad as that might sound.

There were several “bad calls” that I experienced but only a couple where afterwards I went to a supervisor to request EAP services just like what was suggested. What I was met with was the attitude of “if you can’t handle your job then you might need to consider another career.” Not only that but then you have to face being ostracized by not only management but also the other medics in the company and seen as “less than” or “weak.” So, really the only option was to “suck it up” and somehow separate mentally from the daily harsh reality of life.

Anyone who has ever worked in some form of EMS services understands that as a means of survival the job requires that emotions be put to the side and you function purely on logic. But suppressing these emotions does not mean that emotions were not affected. In this kind of career there is a lot of maladaptive behaviors that take to the forefront namely drug/alcohol addiction and a high rate of suicide. Not surprising but nevertheless a reality. I saw things and was involved in situations that the human brain has difficulty processing and accepting.

My husband’s opinion and others that I’ve spoken with at times posed the statement, “Well you chose the career” or “You have the easiest job on the planet. All you do is sit on your ass in an air conditioned truck.” Easiest job on the planet couldn’t have been farther from the truth. It was one of the most dangerous and taxing jobs that one could possibly encounter. The downtime that we would have sitting in the truck “posting” at a location was only due to other trucks being on calls and us covering their area.

I have always replied, “Well then who else was going to do the job? You?” That was always met with silence.

My husband, at the time, was a newspaper editor and well he didn’t and still doesn’t have a clue what that type of job entails. I told him more than once, “If you can work on someone’s mother, father, grandmother, child or grandchild for them to still die even after your best efforts and then go home and lay your head on the pillow and sleep soundly doing this day in and day out then you’re not human. You’re a machine.” The ability to function like this day in and day out requires a certain degree of callousness. But make no mistake that those calls bothered me then and now.

For the last 21 years, I have run some of those same calls all day and all night like my career never ended. The putrid smells of rotting flesh from week old dead bodies that had to be taken to the morgue I can again smell at random times throughout the day. The smells of blood, fuel and mud/dirt from car wrecks. The screams of mothers who I had to tell that their child was dead or wouldn’t survive due to the severity of their injuries. The horrible images of abuse and/or neglect of children, adults and the elderly. The smell and site of exposed brain matter from head injuries, suicides and or murders. The individuals that died simply because you couldn’t get them out of the vehicle because the jaws of life were being used elsewhere and subsequently the vehicle caught fire and were burned alive. The children that would look at you and ask, “Are you going to help my momma or daddy?” While knowing full well that their parent was already dead. The decapitations that looked and felt like you were in a real live horror film. And the leftover pieces of meat that don’t even resemble a human body after being hit by a train consume my thoughts and emotions when most people lay down for a night’s rest. It’s at these times, once again, that my shift starts on the once beloved career working on an ambulance. I didn’t work several years. I only worked one year on the ambulance until the abuse at home combined with the daily trauma that I was exposed in this career caused me to buckle. I saw enough in that one year to still have me waking up in the mornings with my face and shirt wet with sweat.

Without fail whenever I see or hear those lights and sirens, I instantly want to run and jump on the truck and ask, “Ok. What kind of call are we going to?” Sometimes I’ll still listen to a local scanner to find out what’s going on throughout the city especially on a weekend. I will also hear those very same words, “10-4 control we’re 10-8” and then the crew is given the next location for an additional call. It’s in those moments that I realize that EMS and the need and want to help people will always be a part of me. And at night I realize that EMS is still a part of me.

One of the most powerful lessons that was taught to me through experience of working in EMS is to tell those that you care about that you love them even strangers because you might be the only one that speaks those words. The last words you say might very well be the last words that are said.

“The most basic job of an EMT is to notice things and then wonder about them.”

–Thom Dick

#thispuzzledlife

June 15, 2019 darnold1975

The 1-2 Punch

“Grief is perhaps an unknown territory for you. You might feel

both helpless and hopeless without a sense of a ‘map’ for

the journey. Confusion is the hallmark of a transition.

To rebuild both your inner and outer world is a major project.”

–Anne Grant

Another sleepless night and I’ll just call I….grief and shame. It comes with no instruction manual or statute of limitation. To me it’s one of our body and mind’s deepest and purest emotions. Grief is one of these emotions that float around in our psyche waiting for its “perfect” time to be exposed. Its perfect timing usually does not equate to our perfect timing. Some of us prefer to grieve in private to hide whatever shame we’ve been intentionally or unintentionally exposed to about the process. No matter how heavy or light the grieving is on a more intimate level we would usually prefer to have someone close by for support.

My personal grieving process is one that’s very confusing and shame based. While still living at home with my parents prior to my relationship with my ex-husband, grieving was considered a natural part of life. Emotions were acknowledged and processed usually around the dinner table. At the hands of an abusive teacher at age 13, was the first time I very distinctly remember being shamed for my tears. Tears were no longer seen as an emotion but rather as a weakness. The lesson learned from this experience was “Ignore the emotion. Hide the tears. The abuse won’t stop but it shouldn’t get worse.”

Tried and true this method worked for this moment and many more years. I had no idea where powerful emotions other than anger went. They just seemed to dissipate as quickly as when they appeared. The grief has been out of sight from the naked eye. Though it was only buried and not gone.

Grieving around my ex-husband was never acceptable as you can imagine. His grief no matter how minute seemed to always be justified. My tears led to comments about being “childish and embarrassing” for him especially when in public. At home behind the dread closed doors, I was still called “childish” and “stupid.” I was also made fun of, laughed at and “taught a lesson about being an adult” by way of some sexual encounter. I very quickly learned how to also control those emotions with a shovel and dirt. So where do the emotions go? They are buried deep in the ground where your heart rests. They are festering sometimes for years one on top of another. Eventually maybe sooner rather than later a foreign substance or maladaptive behavior comes along that seems to provide some type of pseudo-catharsis. It presents itself as the dependable one who will always be loyal and non-judgmental and a best friend We buy into the rationalizations only to have the name ADDICTION tattooed on our foreheads like a scarlet letter. The substance and/or behavior soon becomes the “best friend” that will cut out throats leaving only a trail of destruction to show the quality of the relationship. This “stuffing” of emotions is in no way exclusive to grief.

Three years after the death of Sarah and I sit here quietly in the wee hours of the morning, in my bed facing this very emotion. A heavy heart and a lump in my throat that seems to be limiting my air flow is the result of this incredibly painful memory. From the time we were notified that she was terminally ill until she passed away from approximately 1.5 weeks. I felt as though I had no time for grieving because I had promised to do the difficult job of being with her until the very end. Out of respect, I felt that I needed a safer time and place to deal with this. However, tears just seemed to continue to fall despite the fact that I could not feel any emotion. I vowed to process this the minute I got back to Albuquerque.

Once I was able to line up another therapy session the weight of Sarah’s death and the miscarriage of Copeland’s twin got the best of me and I began sobbing like a child. I was being so vulnerable and raw with my emotions for the first time since the horrible days of not being allowed to grieve around my husband. I just needed to be able to cry as an adult child and parent for these heavy losses. I hungered for something as simple as compassion. This day and time “compassion” would be the illusive fugitive. The response I received from this “trusted” professional was, “Dana give me a break. She wasn’t your real mom and that wasn’t a real baby.” All I could do was freeze and try not to vomit. It was like another 1-2 punch experienced many times previously but all in their own unique fashion. I became numb and have no further recollection of the remaining time in session.

In the years since this happened any time emotions about the loss of Sarah make it to my throat but rarely do they leave my eyes. The shame for grieving even with so-called “safe” people now felt “unsafe.” This incident alone has made for some difficult therapeutic baggage. I don’t know how to put what happened into words but betrayal is how it felt then and now. Being able to address this topic with professionals on a level deeper than just superficial has been nearly impossible because of one thing…FEAR.

Luckily after this incident our trusted couple’s therapist of 6 years, at the time, was patiently awaiting the return with open arms as we come back licking our wounds. Unfortunately though the damage had already been done. The same actions by my former perpetrators had now rolled out of the mouth of my therapist. When I finally met “coach” in nothing less than a flamboyant display of behavior my distrust and subsequent hatred for professionals of any kind was very evident.

I’ve always said that compassion is my kryptonite. “Coach” hasn’t let me down in this area. It’s been a very slow process to learn to trust the right kind of “safe” people. As the boiling lava of grief surrounding the loss of Sarah and our unborn child continues to fester, I still find myself going into the closet in my bedroom to cry so that no one else in the house can hear me. The few times I actually do shed tears around others is simply because I consider them my very closest. As I continue to deal with the shame of showing intimate emotions I also realize that I’m working with someone who would never treat me like that. With all the complexity of untangling some very painful areas of my past, I must admit that I can leave that for someone other than me. When I met “coach” someone in the same professional position had planted a seed about the possibility that it could happen again. The pain of it slowed me down but again compassion is winning out. And slowly but surely my tears are finding their way out of my eyes again.

“Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.”

–Dr. Brene Brown

#thispuzzledlife

June 14, 2019 darnold1975

Soul Murder

“They are all innocent until proven guilty. But not me. I am a liar until I am proven honest.”
― Louise O’Neill, Asking For It

I have written and spoken several times about my life and domestic violence. Under the umbrella of domestic violence are several forms such as: physical abuse; emotional abuse; controlling or domineering; intimidation; stalking; passive/covert abuse; economic deprivation; endangerment; criminal coercion; kidnapping; unlawful imprisonment; trespassing; harassment and sexual abuse. I knew that several years after leaving him that something about our sex life continued to haunt me. I didn’t know what it was called but I always knew what it felt like….SOUL MURDER.

In the conservative deep south, I was brought up like many children to “save yourself for your husband.” This was not a tall order for me as sports was my number one priority. I would meet him at the age of 17 which was 19 years his junior. Naivety led me right into the cold awaiting arms of a predator disguised as “Prince Charming.” He used the one promise that he knew I couldn’t refuse to set the hook and reel me in “I will help you find your birth family.” Rolling off his silver tongue of manipulation would be the promises of a future with a man who would “treat me like his queen.” But like most things that seem too good to be true his promises would turn out to be lies.

I guess what made this so confusing was that I NEVER saw my dad treat my mom with disrespect. I was questioning the whole time, “This is what I saved myself for?” He was my first and the guy that finally trusted in such an intimate fashion only to have that trust betrayed in a way that is still too difficult to handle emotionally. I secretly wondered why I was never told about this side of marriage. The truth despite his “brainwashing” justifications for his actions was that no this was not normal and healthy marriages do NOT consist of this type of dominating behavior.

Many years later while looking for answers regarding the strange, threatening and coercive nature especially with the passages of the Bible about how a “woman is to submit to her husband,” I came across the term Marital Rape and I knew instantly that this was what had happened. The term marital rape describes “any unwanted sexual acts by a spouse or ex-spouse that is committed without the other person’s consent. Such illegal sexual activity are done using force, threat of force, intimidation, or when a person is unable to consent. The sexual acts include intercourse, anal or oral sex, forced sexual behavior with other individuals, and other sexual activities that are considered by the victim as degrading, humiliating, painful, and unwanted. It is also known as spousal rape” (https://definitions.uslegal.com/m/marital-rape/, 2018).

I personally have not been able to make sense of such an intimate form of betrayal. This type of violence destroys you from the inside out. Remembering how scared I was as a young child when the first time I was introduced to sexual abuse the rules of these types of scenarios were still very clear. The easiest and least painful way to get through the moment was to give in to their demands. If you try to fight them the abuse gets worse. If you don’t “perform” for them the abuse gets worse. And as I was told many times, “What are YOU going to tell them Dana? You’re the “head case” with the mental history, not me.” The puppet master continued to pull the strings to make sure that his needs and only his needs were met.

Even as I write this the nausea bubbling like a pot on a stove builds its way to the back of my throat as I think about and remember the vile ways that I was treated as property rather than as a human being. I was not a wife but rather a legal whore. Being told what I was going to do for him and then berated with humiliating and very damaging body image comments afterwards just seems to further rake into your soul with the devil’s claw. Consensual loving sex is not…

Forced sex. This should be obvious. But some men have the mistaken idea that marriage changes the rules. It doesn’t. If a husband holds his wife down, pushes her, or imposes sex by hurting her, it’s rape. Making love doesn’t include making someone cry.
Sex when the wife feels threatened. If a husband forces sex through verbal threats of harm to the woman or to people or things she cares about or if he comes to her in a barely contained rage, she can’t consent. She can only comply rather than risk being harmed either physically or emotionally.
Sex by manipulation. If a husband calls his wife names, accuses her of not being a good wife, or blackmails her emotionally by suggesting she’s so bad in bed that he will go elsewhere, he’s manipulating her. Some men even threaten to leave and take the kids with him if their wives don’t comply with demands for sex. When a wife falls for these tactics, it isn’t consent. It’s rape.
Sex when the wife can’t give consent. Loving sex is genuinely consensual. If a woman is drugged, asleep, intoxicated or unconscious, she obviously can’t give consent. Even if she says “yes” in such circumstances, the “consent” isn’t valid or truthful. She’s in no shape to consider the consequences or to participate as a willing partner.
Sex by taking a woman hostage. Some men keep themselves in a position of superiority by controlling all the money, by making contact with friends and family difficult to impossible, or by making sure there is no way for her to get transportation out of the house. The woman becomes a hostage in her own home. Like many hostages, she gives up and gives in to whatever he wants — including sex.
Sex when the woman feels she has no choice. Giving in isn’t the same as giving consent. When a woman feels that it’s just easier to give in to sex than to respect her own needs, she is being raped (https://psychcentral.com/lib/marital-rape/, 2016).

THE PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFECTS OF SUCH BEHAVIORS INCLUDE:

Short-term psychological effects include PTSD, anxiety, shock, intense fear, depression and suicidal ideation.
Long-term psychological effects include disordered sleeping, disordered eating, depression, intimacy problems, negative self-images, and sexual dysfunction (https://vawnet.org/material/marital-rape-new-research-and-directions, 2018).

COMMON WAYS THAT ABUSERS AVOID RESPONSIBILITY FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT

Denial: Acting as if nothing out of the ordinary happened, boldly stating that it didn’t happen, calling you crazy for saying that it did, saying he doesn’t remember.
Rationalization: “You must have wanted it” “You could have stopped me,” “A husband is entitled to it”; Rationalization is also blaming you: ” If you gave me more sex I wouldn’t have to force you”
Minimization: I didn’t really hurt you” “You’re making a fuss about nothing” “I just wanted to make love to you.”
Claiming Loss of Control: “I was too turned on to stop”, “You make me so angry” (https://pandys.org/articles/partnerrapeoverview.html, 2009).

To say that I’ve lacked a fulfilling intimate sex life would be the understatement of my life. The level of fear that I experience even with the most supportive relationship cannot accurately be described with words. Whether it be child alters, teen alters or adult alters who step in to try and make this very part of my life possible, it always becomes a disaster. Oh and the mood gets squashed when you think, “Finally, I can do this!” But, yet, you find yourself running from the bedroom straight to the bathroom to vomit.

What I can say about this type of abuse over many years is this….

He not only raped my body, he also raped my mind and murdered my soul. I was very fortunate to meet someone like Mel who is one of the most caring, understanding and compassionate people I know. Our relationship has always been based on love and not sex. I married someone who loves me for the shattered and leftover parts of someone who use to be a fully functioning human being. It took me loving and bowing down to a monster to be able to recognize an angel. She and I walk hand-in-hand often with tears in both of our eyes trying to find a way through all the destruction. She didn’t ask to be married to a spouse with so many complex problems both physically and mentally. She does it because she loves me. Would I go through it all again just to have her? I go through it every day. The abuse has never stopped.

“Here, from her ashes you lay. A broken girl so lost in despondency that you know that even if she does find her way out of this labyrinth in hell, that she will never see, feel, taste, or touch life the same again.”
― Amanda Steele, The Cliff

#thispuzzledlife

June 13, 2019June 13, 2019 darnold1975

My Own Prison

“To be able to break free from prison, one must know how they became imprisoned to begin with.”

—Anonymous

One of the things I’ve learned through the process of trying to live with this disorder are “triggers.” Triggers are anything that can set off a memory that can take someone back in time to when the original trauma. It’s like being in an instant time machine. A trigger can be anything related to sight, sound, smell or taste. These seemingly innocent moments to most people can set off internal and external eruptions in others. This can often lead to strong and immediate reactions by those they affect.

I don’t have all of the answers about these little disruptive beasts yet. And no matter how much I want all of the answers immediately I have to always keep in mind that it has taken me 42 years to become this dysfunctional and repair work does not happen overnight. I guess to be cliché this process is “a marathon not a sprint.”

The ultimate goal of therapy is to be able to acknowledge these events but not let them overtake you. Before this can happen specific triggers must first be identified and the event can be processed. Recently, I did a therapeutic assignment related to this very thing. One of my personal and very strong triggers is the feelings of being trapped either physically and/or emotionally. This is one of the biggest reasons why I don’t have much success in lockdown psychiatric units and inpatient programs. My ultimate goal is ALWAYS TO GET OUT!

While doing this assignment I looked specifically at individual traumatic situations where these fears were imposed and I was instantly blown away. I had no idea how “trapped” I have felt the majority of my life. When I began breaking down the different time periods for these situations things have begun to make a little more sense. I felt myself becoming nauseous and beginning to float away while looking deep inside for these answers. Here are just a few that were identified.

Being molested by people older, at the young age of 5 years old, and not feeling powerful enough to make it stop while also holding these secrets left me feeling trapped. These abusers were also our neighbors and were always around me because of how close our two families were even at church.
As a teenager, I was trapped as some sick form of sport and/or punishment in a closet where I was verbally abused, humiliated and tormented on a daily basis. I was like a dog that was chained to a tree and forced into aggression. I was often sent to the office to face false accusations by the administration where no verdict other than GUILTY was ever considered. I always felt as though no one would listen and that no one cared what was happening. The times I reported that this teacher was “being mean” ultimately got back to her and the abuse intensified. I was often belittled and embarrassed in front of my classmates. The reality of that situation was that there was no way out….period. That was the first time that I ever had any type of suicidal feelings of any kind. Her words still burn deeply as the day that were first said.
Anyone who has experienced domestic violence, in any form, knows the fear and panic of wanting and needing to leave but terrified of the repercussions. I was also followed and constantly watched. The mental anguish from his degrading comments and vile actions left me feeling completely lost, broken and fearing my own decisions. No matter what decision I made it would always be wrong. He had me convinced that I would never be able to do anything without him because I was too dumb. The most powerful statement he ever made to me was “You’ll never get rid of me.” And so far this statement has not been untrue. I was trapped.

These are just a few examples of feeling trapped. And now….I’m trapped by all of the memories, images and statements that were made by those individuals. I still can’t seem to break free from the abuse as it torments me daily. The paranoia of being watched, followed or being attacked has me questioning the intensions of others. Instead of waiting to see if the paranoia holds validity, I protect myself by being very verbally aggressive to innocent people who just happen to making seemingly non-malicious comments or glances. Essentially, I’m in a perpetual state of being triggered. Waiting for a happy ending that never happened during my trauma and today only fuels my impulsiveness in this area.

Being around too many people with too much stimulation sends me and my “protectors” into overdrive and into a state of fight or flight. It seems to overload my brain, thus, making me think I’m in danger. The anxiety becomes so uncomfortable that the only thing I can do is just “get away” in whatever form that might take. I seem to tame this only by being alone and secluded from most people including those I dearly love. I have become a prisoner of myself and life. The dichotomous view of life leaves me imprisoned by my fears within four walls of my bedroom. Outside of these walls I’m simply prepared for battle in one way or another by indiscriminately striking out at anything that moves. The situation that comforts me is also the walls of my self-created but protective prison. My abuse was very real and still is. And I’m a work in progress.

#thispuzzledlife

June 12, 2019 darnold1975

Puppet Master

“An abuser can seem emotionally needy. You can get caught in a trap of catering to him, trying to fill a bottomless pit. But he’s not so much needy as entitled, so no matter how much you give him, it will never be enough. He will just keep coming up with more demands because he believes his needs are your responsibility, until you feel drained down to nothing.”

― Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men

In my seemingly unending quest for answers about my past and present, I’m constantly trying to make connections about my current belief system, every day decision making, the tears, jokes and, yes, even the smiles and laughter. What I’ve slowly learned about the effects of abuse is that no matter what form of abuse was carried out, your belief system about yourself and the world around you will inevitably be changed. I had very little physical abuse but i was subjected to emotional and sexual abuse.

Narcissism seems to be a common thread among abusers. They are their own God but most of all they make themselves your God. The only way I learned how to deal with them is by stroking their enormous egos. Today being around someone that makes even a narcissistic comment will usually trigger some type of a knee jerk reaction from me. Usually, it just ensures that you bought some form of argument with me at a sale price. I can’t stand it and it infuriates me. Even a person with a big personality triggers me. Depending on which alter is triggered, I’ll either be very aggressive or I’ll “cow tow” and avoid eye contact. Either way socially both are very problematic.

People sometimes seem to think that if you don’t have black eyes and broken bones that abuse couldn’t have possibly happened. What they don’t understand is that there are gaping wounds unseen by the naked eye that are looking back at them. As the partner your job is trying to help the abuser to cover their own tracks. And making continuous attempts at achieving their unattainable requests and demands. You become convinced over time that everything in the world that goes wrong must have some connection to you. His beliefs were the only ones that were right and your beliefs are now non-existent because they were seen as wrong and stupid.

One of the most hurtful comments I’ve heard about domestic violence of any kind is “Well he only did what you allowed him to do.” This insinuates that in some sick way I enjoyed or was ok with the things that I was being subjected to. This couldn’t be any farther from the truth. Some say that individuals who are narcissistic abusers lack the capacity to empathize. Personally, I think they can empathize but it’s with the ultimate goal of manipulation in the form of pseudo-empathy. The abuse creates trauma bonding with the abuser which makes it incredibly difficult for the partner to leave the increasingly abusive relationship.

The relationship pretty much consisted of my husband pretending through intense involvement and idealization which was quickly followed by devaluing. However, instead of discarding me when he was finished he would begin telling me everything I did that was wrong including myself for just existing. He would begin luring me back with his silver tongue of promises and things that I could do to make sure that never happened again. Once the idealistic narcissist has gotten their partner to commit, yet again, to the relationship the true self of the narcissist re-emerges.

First the belittling comments begin which then escalate to a narcissistic rage. Their feelings of inadequacy which are at the heart of the narcissist will then be projected onto the partner. And soon once the narcissist makes a mistake it then is transferred the partner as their fault. They also use manipulative abuse that leads their victims to questioning their own thoughts and behaviors. I was subjected to public humiliation when he would say something that seemed benign to the public but is very offensive to the me. He does this because he enjoyed the emotional reaction that it would provoke in all parties. Ultimately, the narcissist takes no responsibility for any relationship difficulties and shows no feelings of remorse. And then they believe themselves to be the true victim because their partner could not meet their expectations. The path of destruction this leaves within the psyche of the partner is colossal.

As every single day that I continue to try and recover from a total of 14 years of his abuse, my heart hurts for the woman who loved so hard that it nearly killed her. And now instead of exuding confidence she exudes fear, shame in her tears and the feeling that her soul is already dead. After all when she use to try to speak to him about her reoccurring depression he would say with laughter, “Depressed? What do you, of all people, need to be depressed about? You have it made living with me. For the love of God, Dana, get off the cross cause someone else needs the wood.” Comments like this all the time left me fearing my own tears that I couldn’t control falling many times. I felt guilty for always being depressed. And above all, I felt guilty for thinking that he was in any small way disrespectful towards me. Because I believed that it was ME that made him act and react the way he did. He couldn’t possibly be telling me lies about this because I was the dumb one who couldn’t see to get things right.

Crying which works as a medication to cleanse the soul has never done me any favors with abusive people. It always made the abuse that much worse because now you are seen as weak. I learned not to cry and didn’t for many years. Those tears seemed to go away but only to the inside where I felt completely alone but comforted. But, I did cry to my razors. And they were the ones that were the most non-judgmental. Living with and being abused by a narcissist I learned one thing….They don’t have time to consider your feelings because they’re too busy trying to make sure that you’re taking care of their feelings. And in essence they can’t see the beauty of a person because they’re always looking for what’s wrong with them. I have heard people say, “Well at least he didn’t break anything on you.” Shamefully and secretly I have thought, “He didn’t have to raise his hand to break me. He was my puppet master.”

#thispuzzledlife

June 12, 2019 darnold1975

The Thunder Rolls

“Trauma is personal. It does not disappear if it is not validated.

When it is ignored or invalidated the silent screams continue internally

heard only by the one held captive. When someone enters the pain and hears

the screams healing can begin.”

― Danielle Bernock, Emerging with Wings: A True Story of Lies, Pain, and the Love That Heals

And this…..11:45 pm and it all slowly stars to descend upon me like a searing napalm death throughout my mind and body. Each night it is the same familiar torment by way of body memories and flashbacks. The same ambulance calls of 20 years prior. The same horrific scenes, smells and sounds from former abusive relationships. The pounding words and actions of an adult’s abuse of power that scared the young teen so bad that now all that’s left of her is RAGE, and ironically, lots of jokes and laughter. The agonizing physical and emotional separation from the one who only became the vehicle, by which, that baby would enter the world still, somehow an inconvenience just for being born. All of this in a sense of organized confusion that’s been set on continual repeat.

I feel something changing in my soul that’s not comforting but more evil. Physically, all “systems” (no pun intended), were on some type of “Red Alert.” The wave of fear that also spreads systemically is met by a cold shiver all the way down my spine. As if I were in a standoff with my demons, I look it in the eye as if to say, “We Meet Again.” I felt like I was looking into the eyes of the devil himself. I was frozen with the fear of another night of flashbacks. I don’t move only to be enveloped by the sequential events that unfold every….single…night, and unfortunately, a lot of days. The torturous movie reel and flashes of scenes from another time and place would remind me of where and how I have both failed and survived.

The humiliation and dehumanizing mind games I still seem to wear as clothing in my own little crazy haven of distorted safety and love. The sting of being a verbal punching bag as some kind of demented sport riddles me like Swiss cheese. I don’t care if I die, I just want it to stop I repeatedly think. Suicide seems like a viable option until I imagine the tear filled eyes of my children and wife. You “white knuckle” these nights that are long and dark. Someone please stop this haunted fair ride you scream silently from deep within. Teens and adults worn down by years of this daily torment has left its mark on even the youngest of alters. The fierce guardians with a “no one goes in and no one comes out” stance leaves this community trapped by its on members. Only for those screams to silently falls on deaf ears once more.

Just before you cash in your chips and just fall where you once stood you hear from the dark recesses of your mind you remember……

“And one day when you’re scared and unsure of what to do….Pick the direction and just do the next right thing. You deserve the answers that are rightfully yours. And when you find them protect your heart.”

“Look at me and we’ll do this together, Charlie. What you do affects your entire team. Your team need you now! Dig deep and come on! And when you want to give up you just DONT.”

“Everything in life is a gift. It may not come with pretty wrapping

and a nice bow. But it’s still a gift.

“Feel your feelings and be safe.”

“Do not react when you are in your emotional mind. Find something to be used as a distraction. If you don’t have a train get creative. View your situation without judgment.”

Because some nights require your sharpest tools for immediate recall to use at a moment’s notice. Your mind and body has been trying to return to some form of homeostasis but the shaking continues. Your shirt damp with sweat need the help of a cold wash cloth to help with grounding. Some of images are now like dissipating like lightening from a summer storm. Your chest tight with anxiety very slowly starts to lessen. Another night of battle complete with me standing but tattered. Another night that your demons think that they win. And my response this very night was, “Oh you thought you won?!!! Watch this!!!!” Again I made it because I have the heart of a champion. “Charlie…you played your heart out tonight and made your team proud. Now take a rest.”

You catch a glimpse of the sun slowly beginning to emerge from the darkness. This very moment is what they told us to continue to fight for….another day to do something different.

#thispuzzledlife

June 11, 2019March 2, 2020 darnold1975

Into The House Of Horrors

Into The House of Horrors

“Compassion for animals is intimately connected with goodness of character;

and it may be confidently asserted that he who is cruel to animals cannot be a good man.”

–Arthur Schopenhauer

It’s a scene that I’ve replayed many times over the last 10+ years. I drove that dirt road to the lot where our house had been built only 5+ years prior. A couple weeks before I had carried out a decision that had been planned for a few years. I was about to execute my plan to leave him for good. This was already 14 years later than I should’ve ever stayed with him. However, the way that I had been silenced for many years continues to leave its mark on me today.

The fears of food, body image, decision making, judgment by him and a diminishing self-worth was now fully engrained. Some of the horrors that I lived through at 22 Casey Lane, Petal, MS continue to torment me today. Everything that I knew about living life as an adult was done one way…..HIS WAY. I divorced him 10+ years ago. But did I really leave him? Part of me did leave him. But another has remained in that imprisoned life; on his arm and controlled every since. He told me that I would never get rid of him and thus far, that statement hasn’t let me down.

The day/night that I left him was shortly after his brother had come into our house drunk and pointing a gun at me. My husband told me that once again his brother would have no repercussions for how he had treated me. I soon found out that all of their scary antics over the years had been devised by my husband. “Like Father, Like Sons” I’ve always said about those two men. I had been looking for a way out for many years but was left only seeing myself as being helpless. But this night was different.

When he told me, after having been terrified by the recent gun issue, that nothing would be done to protect me or our house from his brother and hearing his brother screaming, “I have done everything you asked me to do to her!” I knew I had to get out. I still remember watching myself standup a few days later saying, “I’ve had enough of this shit!” I walked out to my awaiting blue Honda CRV while being screamed at every step of the way. What he was saying and calling me was a compilation of things he had said over the last 14 years of insults. I was beyond terrified at what I might’ve just brought on myself in the coming days. Like most cowards threats were made with no follow through.

Shaking from pure fear I drove to my parents’ house only a few miles away like I had done many times before. The typical end result was me listening to and getting sucked back into the house of a man with a silver tongue. He was my husband and my predator. This time I was determined to get out and stay out because it was just too scary now. I was just going to have to “white knuckle” the urges to want to go back. Through the tears and frustration I stayed true to my goal and did not go back.

The only analogy I’ve been able to use to convey how victimization feels is like a crime that has been committed but I did it to myself. You know that a crime was committed but the way of a predator is to negate his or her wrongdoing and put it on the victim. Often times I would be apologizing for something I had not even done. He had me so convinced that I was responsible for his and the world’s unhappiness that no matter what I did I would always be a failure. Hindsight is always 20/20. I didn’t see this while in the abuse. I just kept striving for excellence by his standards and before I knew it 14 years had passed me by. The damage to my psyche would not be realized for another few years.

I would go back a couple of weeks later to get a few more of my things and to pick up my animals. My cats Simba and Nalla, who I had raised from a bottle, and my African Grey parrot, Rocco were my first priority. I didn’t know what I would do with my hamsters, gerbils, cockatiels, ferrets, iguana, outside cats, rats and outside dogs. The rest of my belongings and furniture would have to wait for now. I had a neighbor who was watching my house and would know when he left so that I could get the things I needed safely. I was given the go ahead but was told to hurry. I had driven that bumpy ride down the dirt road and onto the driveway of our house and I was sweating and nauseous from the fear of going back to the house. The fear was paralyzing but my animals deserved to be out of his abuse as well.

When I unlocked the door and cracked it open the putrid odor of death hit my nose never to be forgotten. I didn’t know what it was but something was very, very wrong. I had no idea what I would find but it was about to be a very harsh reality. I didn’t know if he had been murdered. If he had gotten in an argument with his brother and was dead. I just had no idea what I was about to find. I walked down our hallway into our bedroom where the smell was so overbearing. I was already gagging but still had not found the source. I feared finding someone’s dead body. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary I began to walk across the hall to the animal room. What I found froze my tears in their tracks. This was the source of the smell was right here. I don’t even know how I felt in that moment. The animal room was filled with lifeless animals covered in maggots and blowflies. He had intentionally starved and not watered them. The exceptions to life were those couple of rodents feeding off others in their tanks.

I was frozen with fear and disgust that these animals that I had taken care of for years were all dead. Some were partially eaten. Some were cut in half by whatever he chose to do. This room where I was able to escape his torment, if only for a moment, had become a torture chamber for the other innocent ones. My cats and birds all had molded food and no water. My dogs were going crazy in their outside pen. Thankfully the outside cats had scattered. I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. I simply had to react and just save the ones I could and get out and fast. I got my cats and bird out of the “house of horrors.” I couldn’t save my dogs and was told that a few months later they were taken out of their pen and shot in the front yard. I left that day with the harsh realization that the abuse had not just effected me. How do you get over something like that? You don’t.

“Curiously, deep, deep down—and undoubtedly unconscious to them—they know they’re not really what they project. In fact, one of their central defenses (or stratagems) is to endlessly project onto others the very flaws (and fears!) they’re unable, or unwilling, to allow into awareness. As critical as they are about others’ shortcomings, they’re amazingly blind to their own.”

— Leon F Seltzer Ph.D., Evolution of the Self

#Thispuzzledlife

June 10, 2019January 19, 2020 darnold1975

For The Bible Tells Me So…

For the Bible Tells Me So…

“It is spiritual abuse that uses the Bible as a weapon to manipulate,

shame or guilt people into a way you approve of.”

—-Anonymous

In the wacked out world and society that we as Americans live in we often like to define spiritual abuse in terms of nationality, ethnicity and dialect to other countries that shout, “JIHAD!!!!” Our own country is saturated with individuals who use a form of spiritual abuse every single day. We have our own radical extremists who are armed instead of bombs with suicide missions and IEDs and are armed with a tongue and a Bible. In my case abuse, more specifically domestic abuse was carried out also using the Bible. I speak only of my own past affiliation with religion. Now before your polygrip starts slipping from what I’ve just said give me a minute to explain. Or as many Southerners have once said, “Don’t get yer bowels in an uproar, yer kidneys in a downpour and yer liver in a jar.”

In no way am I saying that everyone that holds strong to their particular religious affiliation are classified as terrorists or abusers. What I am saying is that we forget in our own communities that religion both overtly and covertly can cause colossal damage like that of a terrorist. The damage is not exclusively physical. Pay attention next time you’re in an extra conservative area of the country and just pipe up and say that you don’t go to a church. You will be ostracized quickly and/or be invited to a church and they are not expecting resistance of any kind. If this does occur the likelihood of hearing the saying, “Yep, he/she is going to hell on a scholarship. A full ride straight to hell if they don’t change their ways.”

I will give my experience of domestic abuse being justified behind a couple of verses that seems to be all the justification that some narcissist need to further carry out their deeds. My views are not necessarily that of yours or anyone else’s. There was this one story, though, that I’ve heard most of my life that was right outside of the city limits of Petal, MS on Blue Lake Rd. The people that had this place disguised as a religious run place for unwed mothers and their babies were actually carrying out abuse but only backed by the words held so close to the hearts of many Christians…..THE BIBLE.

Let me attempt to show you the similarities and differences of a couple of situations through words. Regions of the country where my personal experience with religion is affiliated is in the Deep South of Mississippi. I have only lived in one other area of the country…the southwest in Albuquerque, NM. There are similarities in regards to religion in both regions. And there are some strong differences as you can imagine. New Mexico is incredibly more liberal and much more ethnically diverse than Mississippi and let’s just leave it at that.

I’m sure that individuals can tell me about atrocities that happen in the name of religion in the southwest area of the country. By the time Mel and I moved to Albuquerque we were turned off to most forms of organized religion. I will only speak of my own experience. If you were to look at my badly scarred forearms from the many years of cutting, you would notice that more than a few were placed there behind some of the few chosen passages in the Bible.

Around the 1960s, the Bethesda Home for Girls was just one of many homes for unwed mothers run by the late Lester Roloff who played a supporting role in the facility as an evangelical pastor. Around 1960 they operated a choir to market the facility. The facility had a federal investigation in 1986 launched against it amid allegations of abuse and “brainwashing.” Some of the same allegations also occurred in another Roloff-affiliate home Ruth’s Home of Compassion in Rome, GA which were reported by The New York Times stating….

“In 1982, in a hearing heard by Judge Myron Thompson, The Montgomery Advertiser, Bobby Ray Wills, a principal operator of the home, disputed those reports. He acknowledged that the girls had to listen to religious tapes but said, ”It’s a washing, but it’s called blood washing and heart washing.” Donna M. said she tried to run away in November but was caught. She was grabbed by the hair, she told the court, and disciplined by Linda Williams, an employee of the home. Donna said she was struck 19 times with a wooden board and ”put in a tub of hot water” to disguise scars and bruises.

School officials produced a half-inch-thick piece of wood, about 18 inches long and 3 inches wide, that they said was used for discipline. Donna testified that another piece of wood, a split baseball bat with holes in it, was also used at the school. Another witness testified that a longer and thicker board was used. Willing to Take a Risk

David C. Gibbs Jr., a Cleveland lawyer, is representing the school, Mr. Wills and Miss Williams in the case. When he cross-examined Donna today, @she acknowledged that she knew that fleeing the home was against the rules and that she would be disciplined if she was caught. She said she was willing to take that risk.

Mr. Gibbs stressed during his cross-examination of Donna and Cindy T. that all the girls at the home were aware that the home had strict rules of discipline based on their religious convictions. Cindy, 16, of Quitman, Miss., testified that she was beaten several times for talking about her past, talking about fleeing the home, and for getting low grades in the academic program.

Today’s court hearing resulted from a complaint filed with the court last month by relatives of a 19-year-old unwed Hayneville, Ala., woman, who was about five months pregnant at the time and had been sent to the home on the recommendation of a minister of a church here. The woman’s relatives subsequently decided that they might have been misled about the home’s environment.

Her understanding, said Candy H., the plaintiff in the suit, in an affidavit filed with the court, was that the home would provide a refuge from possible public ridicule over her pregnancy out of wedlock, provide religious counseling and arrange for her to put her baby up for adoption by Christians.

As a condition of this help, she said, she was required to sign a contract saying she would stay at the home for a year, would make no phone calls for three months and receive no letters from males. These are standard rules, all sides concede, calling for punishment if they are disregarded. A call by Candy to a relative a few days after she entered the home, however, prompted her sister and mother to seek her release.

In an affidavit filed with the court, Candy, who has been sitting at the plaintiff’s table throughout the day’s proceedings, said: ”I am concerned for the health and safety of other girls at the Bethesda Home for Girls, particularly the physical and mental health of the unwed pregnant girls for the following reasons:

”Pam Hurd, a pregnant girl who has been at the Bethesda Home for Girls for two months, was beaten a week ago by Linda Williams in her office with a wooden board. Pam Hurd returned from Mrs. William’s office crying and in great pain. Pam Hurd sat in her desk and continued to cry. Pam is five months pregnant.

”Veronica, a helper at Bethesda Home for Girls, threatened Pam with additional beatings if she did not stop crying. Pam responded, ‘I just can’t help it, because it hurts.”

”Pregnant girls are repeatedly told they are worse than murderers for having sex out of wedlock,” the affidavit said. ”Pregnant girls are demeaned in front of other girls. This was very upsetting to the girls, as it was to me.”–The New York Times, 1982.

The owners Bobby Wills and his wife Betty is mentioned in relationship with Mountain Park Academy, which were run in the still un-regulated state of Missouri in the early 1980s.

In 1986 FBI started an investigation. The state sought new homes for 120 teenagers. Aside from the protests from local Christian fundamentalists the investigation resulted in the closure of the facility. Girls, some of whom were pregnant , who was committed to these facilities due to their pregnancy were often forced to give their child up for adoption.

A girl named Connie Munson died during an escape attempt from the facility.

In late 2010, the former campus was victim of a fire which destroyed the main dorm.

A lot of these girls have had long lasting effects. You can do an internet search about this organization and find additional information about the allegations, investigations and eventual rescue of the minors and prosecution of the owners. These girls ,unfortunately, were not in the minority with these types of behaviors then or now. Now how does this relate to me?

In my marriage to my husband that lasted from 1997-2007, a significant change happened in his abuse. First, I was told once we were married, “Now that we’re legally married you have to do everything I say. If you don’t give it , I can take it because I’m a husband.” Again the message that God thought this was ok because it was in the Bible which was conveyed on so many levels. We even had a pastor who told us when we went to couples counseling and I complained of how rigid he was about food and body image comments the pastor told us, “A man has a right to have his wife look a certain way.” Again this seemed to be another confirmation to him that must have given him the “go ahead” on the way he had already been treating me for a few years. By that time, he had already mentally broken me down to the point that I was afraid to be without him. Either way this seemed to be the go ahead to seal my fate into being this controlled until I left him in 2006.

Sometimes the behavior does not classify as abuse but rather mixed messages. The therapist in Albuquerque that I worked with for 2.5 years and was anything but healing in nature was also incredibly ego driven. The narcissistic way that she conducted therapy was a similar way that my previous marriage to my ex-husband. Obviously, there were some significant differences but the differentiation in the imbalance of power, verbal aggression and just malicious tones scared me right back into a state of submission. This is why women and men stay in abusive relationships longer than they want to often to the individual’s detriment. It’s the breaking of a human being into submission.

The verse so often cherry picked right out of the Bible to justify their behavior was Ephesians 5:22 which states “Wives submit to your husband as your husband submits to the Lord. ” It appears that this is a mandate for wives to do whatever the husband demands if reading only this part of the chapter. The will of the woman and the reasonableness of the request are irrelevant to folk who misinterpret the text. Thus, when a wife refuses to “obey” her husband, he sees it as his job to make her “get in line” or to “make her a better person” as I was told.

This misreading does injustice to the text and to the victims of domestic violence. Ephesians 5:22 is preceded by verse 21: “submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.” Paul has in mind a magnificent sign to the world of God’s transforming work: People giving of themselves freely and mutually. This fits the opening verses of this chapter (Ephesians 5:1-2), which tells us to “be imitators of God” by “living a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us (Kinnison, 2008).” Furthermore, Paul goes on to admonish husbands to love their wives as they would love their own bodies. (Ephesians 5:28).

In the early 1980’s, I was molested by my pastor’s children at the young age of 5.5 years old. The details are sketchy for now but make no mistake that I still know, hear and see things in the form of flashbacks that give me all the proof that I need. I remember some of these times where I was terrified to say anything about what had happened. It wasn’t fear of my parents. It was the fear for what would happen to me if I did tell. I would keep this secret for almost another 30 years. The fear was due to an imbalance of power by kids much older than me.

This therapeutic relationship had an incredibly forceful presence that scared the ever living shit out of me. This was another situation where I would “cow tow” to someone who presents very authoritatively. Most people know that I can, at times, be very confrontational. However, someone with a very dominant and powerful personality is my kryptonite. I have been known to avoid eye contact with people that are very dominant. I will have physical reactions around them. I did not say, “Bad or dangerous people.” Those that find this and use it to their advantage in an abusive fashion are incredibly dangerous to me.

The very last day this therapist and I ever spoke and her reign had finally come to an end. She told me on the way out, “You know what I’m going to do for you?” Like an idiot I said, “What?” Like some words of wisdom would actually surface. She told me, “I will leave you with this last comment….I’m going to pray for you.” “After all you’ve said and done and that’s the best you got?” I asked. Some might ask which situation was more damaging for me? She was because of the professional position gives an edge. But to me they both used the Bible and they were both abusive. Their somewhat deathly blows were both using the Bible as the main weapon.

I walked off with tears in my eyes and thought…”JUST ANOTHER SITUATION I HAD TO SURVIVE AT THE HANDS OF ANOTHER PREDATOR.”

Whenever I would ask my ex-husband why I had to do whatever task was at hand for him he always told me, “Because the Bible says so.”

http://www.ethicsdaily.com/abusers-distort-bible-to-justify-domestic-violence-cms-14959, Kinnison, 2008.

http//www.nytimes.com/1982/03/05/us/home-s-ex-inmates-tell-of-beatings.html, 2012.

#Thispuzzledlife

June 10, 2019 darnold1975

We Called Him Friend

We Called Him….Friend

“The best way a mentor can prepare another leader is to expose him or her to other great people.”

—John C. Maxwell

I have been asking myself lately why I felt the need to write about these individuals who made such a big impact on my life. The answer…..I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m finally emotionally able to write about them. Or maybe now that this big life change has happened I have had the time to do some soul searching about people who have impacted my life both positively and negatively. Whatever the reason I write to process these feelings in private because I’ve always feared expressing emotions other than anger or laughter. One man that knew the trauma I was experiencing and that spent a tremendous amount of time talking to me each week was Dr. Charles Holmes.

I first met Dr. Holmes during my undergraduate work. I took several classes he taught on both the undergraduate and graduate level. He wasn’t a man that crossed boundaries. He was simply a man who loved his students almost like that of a father. The first class I took under him was the History of Psychology. Honestly, the class couldn’t have been more boring. I would have random thoughts like, “Oh my God did I remember to put on deodorant? Do penguins have knees? What did I wear? I look like I just rolled out of my hamper!” That was one class I truly had to suffer through not because of the instructor but the material. I was secretly thinking, “To have lobotomy by a leper wouldn’t be as painful.”

He taught many different classes that impacted the lives of so many students. And then…..I took the Psychology of Addiction and instantly I was in love. At the time, I had never spoken publicly about the puzzling nature of my life. When I presented the topic chosen in the class which happened to be about self-harm. I let my peers into a very small corner of my world and proceeded to throw up after the presentation was complete. I was also still living with my ex-husband so I was very cautious about telling too much. But with Dr. Holmes it was just different and you knew that by talking to him. He cared and wanted to know how his students were doing personally not just academically.

March 21, 1941-July 17, 2015

He told us about working with homeless addicts and alcoholics on the streets of New Orleans, LA and I hung onto every word he said. He knew I was living in an abusive situation but didn’t know the extent. He didn’t pry but rather just assure me that he was there if I ever needed to talk. He saw me struggling every day with my personal life of addiction but always had an encouraging word. He also presented the opportunity to speak to other classes and this continued on into graduate school. These opportunities were slowly making the shame and guilt dissipate while educating others.

After Hurricane Katrina he told me about some work he was doing in the Pearlington, Waveland and Bay St. Louis areas of Mississippi which were the hardest hit areas. I was already doing some photography for a book another teacher and I were working on about the devastation. He invited both Melody and I to help on some rebuilding projects through a Christian organization he was affiliated with. I can honestly say that the work done in those areas was extremely rewarding. Not to mention all of the memories that I still have from that. Here were families broken from the tragedy and I was there to help. My heart and soul lit up instantly.

I pulled him aside one day before class and said, “Dr. Holmes you’re messing up my theory about men.” He said, “What are you talking about?” I said, “Well my experience with men truly exemplifies that all men are pigs and extremely harmful. Why aren’t you?” He said, “Dana because I don’t see people in a way as personal property or to make personal gains.” We hugged and I have never forgotten that. He would soon make it where all of his classes were required to attend my speaking engagements on campus including the Regional Pine Belt Counseling Association where several professional members of the community also attended.

Once Mel and I moved to Albuquerque life got busy and we spoke every once in a while. But I did tell him when he asked where I was working that it was with the homeless and how much I appreciated him planting the seed. I missed him terribly and as my mental health declined all I wanted was to sit down with him and to be told, “It’s going to be ok.”

When we would travel back to Mississippi I would always stop by the college and look up these professors that meant so much to me. And I could always count on a big hug from Dr. Holmes and occasionally I would help “stomp out stigma and stupidity.” Whether he was in class or not I would peek around where he could see me and he would excitedly stop his lecture and say, “Come on in, Dana. Class let me tell you about this former student.” My heart leapt for joy each time and seemed to make it all worth it.

One day while Mel and I were planning a trip back to Mississippi his wife accidentally called me. It was probably a butt dial. But I called her back as this was odd. She told me, “Dana doc isn’t doing well and if you want to see him come on.” My heart sunk into my stomach and I felt sick. My beloved professor and friend was dying and there was nothing I could do.

We raced the clock trying to get there before he passed. Luckily or maybe something granted by the universe, we got there in time. I walked into his room where he was connected to different medical devices. I could see he was struggling to breathe and when our eyes met he said, “Dana?” I said, “Hey doc it’s me. I told you I would be here if you ever needed me.” He smiled and said, “Are you still cutting?” I said, “Really that’s your burning question to ask me after this long?” He and I chuckled and I said, “Yea doc I’m still struggling.” We had a rather short conversation but I told him before I left, “Doc thank you for being such a good man, professor and friend. You really blessed me and it was an honor to have you in my life.” We told each other “I love you” both with tears in our eyes and hugged. I left and he soon passed away.

When it was time for his service I saw some William Carey University professors like Dr. Cotten there and I was trying to choke back the tears that were wanting to erupt in my throat. Then as the service finished and people were mingling a couple walked up to Mel and I and said, “Hey, I think we know you.” I was scared to death because I couldn’t recall their names or faces. Ashamed I said, “And who might you guys be?” They said, “Your name is Dana, right?” I just knew that they must’ve seen my face on a wanted poster or something. Reluctantly, I said, “Yes that’s me.” And they said, “We remember you from helping to rebuild our house after the hurricane with Dr. Holmes.” I was astonished and had a sense of pride as well. I said, “Yes he was one of my good friends and I’ll miss him dearly.”

#Thispuzzledlife

June 6, 2019June 7, 2019 darnold1975

My Life With Ed

My Life With ED

“We turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they might teach us how not to need.”
― Marya Hornbacher, Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia

The topic of eating disorders is one that can cripple me to my knees. The thought of having to discuss the topic with someone is like knocking the wind out of me. If just the thought of this bothers me this bad then I would caution anyone with an active eating disorder or early recovery from one about very triggering information about my disordered past and present. This post will probably be done over a couple of days due to how much it will stir internally.

If you’ve been reading my blog from the beginning, you know that the age of 13 was a very difficult year and was emotionally abusive by a teacher. This was the year that several behaviors started for me such as: cutting, eating disorder, drug addiction and very early alcohol abuse. At the time, I didn’t understand that the behavior was called an eating disorder. I just knew that I was about to start playing high school sports the following fall and I had to be faster and stronger.

The time I remember the first “dieting” type behavior was soon after the eighth grade ended. I went on a crash diet and within about two weeks lost 20 lbs. I had, in that short time, taught myself to dislike certain foods. I had been using the drug Mini-Thins which was marketed as a bronchodilator at many truck stops that had both ephedrine and caffeine in its makeup. This was well before ephedrine was taken off the market because of so many sports related deaths. I clearly remember there being 100 tabs for $7.99. Any allowance money went straight to those little pills. Now you’re wondering exactly what purpose they served for me, eh? This drug while containing a precursor for methamphetamine, completely knocked out my appetite while decreasing all water weight and supplying me the energy to play two sports without eating.

I was completely wrapped up in a big ole ball of addiction already and had no idea. I’ve always said that addiction was the best friend that cut my throat. It served its alleged purpose while wrapping me up in a killing machine of codependency of both behaviors and substances. All it took for my eating disorder to continue was one compliment or another pound lost. I soon found myself becoming a quicker ballplayer with greater stamina and explosive power. Unfortunately, this never worked well with the aggressiveness that also developed this year.

When I went to high school, and thank goodness they weren’t drug testing athletes at that time, I was a full blown addict already out of control within only about 3 months. My eating disorder had now progressed to weighing 12-15 times a day. I slept in teachers rooms during lunch so I wouldn’t have to be around food. I was now both anorexic and bulimic. My bulimia purging was through laxative use. I was getting drunk to the point of passing out and/or vomiting anytime I went to a “party.” The mind bending part was that I was really climbing in my athletic play. I was a starting freshman on both the softball and basketball teams. I thought and felt like I was on top of the world. I seemingly ‘had my cake and got to eat it too.’

The next couple of years I continued to lose weight but my playing slowly started on a downward spiral. By my senior year, I was a sickly 83 lbs on a 5’7″ frame. I had resorted to stealing diet pills and would frequently have mini seizures or some type of severe jerking movements and saw spots in the mornings. I was constantly weighing myself. I was constantly tired and cold. I would eat one small salad a week and would cry if I had to eat in public. The questions had started long before about “why aren’t you eating?” “Are you losing weight?” Most of the time I would just tell people that I wasn’t hungry. I had already eaten or my stomach hurt. I would explain the weight loss off as just training harder and having a higher metabolism as a teenager. My dreams of playing college basketball and/or softball were disappearing and I didn’t even care. I was also now taking 25 pills a day just to maintain my habit.

People began to tell me how sickly I looked. My eyes were dark and sunken. My face was sunken and my ribs and backbone were unhealthily showing. My digestive system was completely messed up. Mentally I didn’t know whether to ‘scratch my watch or wind my butt.’ And my body had begun to feed on itself. As a result, I was unable to be in top notch shape as an athlete because I always had pulled muscles in my back. I had just watched myself as a beloved player of the game of basketball go from being able to play hard and fast the entire game to having to come out of the game shortly after tip off because of lack of energy or injuries.

When I moved from my teen years into my years of domestic abuse, I was required to weigh for my husband and to stay in a certain weight range. I had finally started to recover minimally, I thought, pull out of my life of an eating disorder. However, it seemed that I was being forced back into those behaviors again. I was soon being told what I could and could not eat. How and what I ate were criticized constantly. I was made to take pictures of myself in bathing suits or naked and put them on the refrigerator as a reminder what I looked like when I got hungry. And when I went to work and food establishments were nearby, I was dared to eat when it wasn’t the food I was allotted. Sometimes I would look up from where I worked and my husband would be out in the parking lot watching me from his vehicle. I became terrified to eat again and I was starving. Most of the time, I would wait for him to go to bed and I would sneak food hoping to God he didn’t hear me. Still, he would inevitably start pinching at my body and making comments about how I looked and dressed. He would tell me, “You want to see something disgusting? Just look in the mirror.”

Skip ahead to today and I still have a lot of hang ups around food, eating and body image. This is probably one of the topics that haunt me the most. I still cannot eat in public without wearing sunshades, headphones and trying to hide behind menus. We have fears of being recognized and being talk about concerning whatever we might order or how we eat. I’m scared to death about trying new foods. I’m scared to make food selections. I’m very uncomfortable with eating around people especially those that I know. I prefer to eat privately. These days it’s not about getting the high from the endorphins. Now it’s strictly about fear of judgment. Yes, I still have an eating disorder. No, I’m not an anorexic weight. Let me get stressed out and the first thing I do is start restricting. There I said it. I have a really long way to go on this recovery. And with DID, as you may or may not can imagine, things can be extremely stressful for extended periods of time.

As my dear Sarah would tell me if I asked her advice on this one, she would say, “Dana, start at step #1. This is a marathon not a sprint.” Again, I can smile.

#Thispuzzledlife

May 31, 2019May 31, 2019 darnold1975

LGBT And DID

LGBT and DID

4.3.2015

“Gender preference does not define you. Your spirit defines you.”
― P.C. Cast, Awakened

I’m not going to get on a political soapbox about LGBT rights. The fact is that, people aren’t going to change my mind based on their beliefs. I’m not going to change their mind about my beliefs. Honestly, being a member of the LGBT community and having DID leaves me in the minority of the minorities. Do I care? Some areas yes, but the thoughts don’t control my life. Does the idea of refusing service to someone based on who they love concern me? Yes and I don’t believe that it’s right at all. However, no one’s opinions about my life and marriage pay my bills, sleep in my bed or raise our son.

My mother gave me some valuable advice my whole life that even as a child I was able to quote. When I would complain about something not being fair, she would always say, “There are a lot of things in life that aren’t fair. The sooner you learn to live with them, the better off you’ll be.” To me, that translates to a very common theme in 12-Step communities which simply means, ‘Living life on life’s terms.’ Abuse is the exception to the rule. Abuse is never ok.

If my wife and son were to go into a restaurant and be refused service because of the makeup of our family, sure I would probably make a scene by making my voice heard. I have no problem defending my family at all costs. Chances are after a verbal lashing from yours truly, the person who refused the service might actually think before making such comments. I don’t know. Maybe try checking with one of the employees at our local library to see what he says. Anyway, my wife and I were taught something even more valuable while growing up in the deep south….the art of southern cooking.

One thing I know without a doubt is that, I’m gay and very happy being my authentic sexual self. I was very unhappy living a life that wasn’t me as a straight female. Some people, including family, have an issue with me being married to a woman even though I was being abused by my ex-husband and very unhappy. You know what…it truly is their issue and not mine. I’m happy being with the woman I love and being treated with love and respect. I don’t regret one day since I ‘came out’ even though I, too, have lost friends and family as a result.

I found my soul mate in one of the most chaotic times in my life. We love each other as much and more than we first met. We have weathered storm, after storm, after storm mostly on our own. So, for us, our relationship was do or die. Melody is truly my balance. Since my diagnosis of DID, life for us has still remained chaotic even when our personal life has been ok. Life keeps pounding us with more and more. What I do know about us as a couple and as a family is that we are incredibly resilient and strong.

Our lives on a daily basis don’t even fit the ‘our plate’s full’ analogy. ‘Our plate runneth over and over and over’ seems to be more accurate. If you need a better description, think of an organization that’s collecting money for some charity and they have the thermometer that’s colored red as the collection of funds climbs. When they reach the top, the red starts spewing out the top. Yea, that’s a more accurate picture of how full our plate usually has been for several years now. Mel and I took a proactive approach 6 years ago to start couples counseling as a way to maintain a healthy relationship. How valuable these therapists have been for us as a couple during all of this chaos. Sometimes, it has truly felt like our couples’ counseling has been the only thread holding us together. She sees her therapist. We see our couples’ therapist. And someday soon I’ll have my own therapist again. Truthfully, I would just like to take a break from individual therapy until our new baby boy is born to give my ‘system’ time to chill.

People can have their opinions about gay rights and that’s fine. I also have a choice whether or not to be a one member audience as well. Sometimes I choose to jump into an already futile and very argumentative effort. Nothing really ever gets accomplished but the usually equally aggressive insults. In the big scheme of things, everyone has an opinion and thinks that they’re right. Laws are changed by the government not me.

I’ll tell you what the most important thing in my life right now…potty training the 3 year old. We also have friends and family in need. I’m looking for a new therapist. And daily, I deal with the horrors that I’ve experienced my whole life. I do my best to try and put the pieces of my puzzled life back together. It’s not that the topic of gay rights isn’t important to me. It’s just that, at this particular time in my life, other things take precedence. I’ve got my wife and son and no government or food establishment can take that from me. Most of the time I just roll my eyes and shake my head.

Every single day the evidence of my life of secretive abuse floods my mind and body. I fight like hell to get out of the bed and to try to challenge my fears and anxieties about life. Life isn’t easy being gay or having DID. Both have their own stigmas and bent belief systems by society. Have your own beliefs and opinions, but you can’t touch our rainbow bubble.

And since the uproar about the pizza establishment has become such a big deal….I don’t feed my genitals pizza anyway.

#Thispuzzledlife

May 30, 2019May 31, 2019 darnold1975

Silencing The Lambs

The Silencing of the Lambs

3.16.15

“What makes psychopathy so different, so surreal…that it knocks her head off? The inability to wrap her head around the emotional-physical-spiritual-sexual gang bang that just happened when she thought she was the most wonderful person.”

—Sandra Brown, Women Who Love Psychopaths

I was trying to decide on a quote this morning for this particular blog post about trauma that would cover the spectrum of how trauma effects different developmental stages from a personal perspective. While quite blunt, this quote pretty much describes the ‘rape’ on so many levels of each of my personal traumas. When people ask, “If things were so bad, why didn’t you leave? Or, why didn’t you just tell someone what was happening?” Honestly, I just have to see and understand that I’m talking to someone at that moment who doesn’t and might not ever understand unless in that position themselves. Individuals who have never been abused or been so scared that the last thing they would or could ever do is tell the ‘little secret’ to expose their perpetrators, can’t comprehend that level of fear.

Keep in mind that the ‘little secret’ about my molestation by our preacher’s sons was mentioned in passing only a couple times until I told what happened, not even in detail, less than 10 years ago. That secret I had been holding since I was a 5.5 year old child. Why do kids do that if they know and are confident that their parents can help? The problem is not with the child or the parents. The problem lies with the perpetrators. If the perpetrators are the parents, then that’s a separate topic. Even when I got older and new no physical harm could come to me, the seed of fear was planted many years ago. All I knew was that the topic scared me. I knew what had happened through broken memories. But, I was completely detached emotionally except for the emotion of fear. My parents being the very loving and understanding couple that they are were revealed additional pieces of that time in my life last summer for the first time. Can you imagine how they felt knowing some additional information about things that transpired? Then how do you think, as a child, I felt with it being done to me? The fact that they were connected to religion has always had an influence on my view of religion and religious figures.

In my abusive previous relationship and consequently a marriage, I kept holding on to the false hope that one day I would again be in the relationship with the person that charmed me. I was so young and naive that I couldn’t see what was happening to me every single day. His grip just became more and more tighter emotionally until I had been convinced that I was too stupid, dumb, uneducated, ugly, retarded, unwanted by anyone else and whatever else he could come up with in the moment to call me that I felt too weak to be able to stand on my own two feet. My view of survival was…..well….him. I was also extremely scared, at that time, of the repercussions of his or his family’s anger. But, he had his own techniques about how he would ‘raise’ me as his wife. He just didn’t know that there was a term called gas lighting that would describe parts of his abuse.

A very common form of brainwashing in which an abuser tries to falsely convince the victim that the victim is defective, for any purpose, such as making the victim more pliable and easily controlled, or making the victim more emotional and therefore more needy and dependent. {You’re reading “Definition of Gas lighting” by J. E. Brown.}

Often done by friends and family members, who claim (and may even believe) that they are trying to be helpful. The gas lighting abuser sees himself or herself as a nurturing parental figure in relation to the victim, and uses gas lighting as a means for keeping the victim in that relationship, perhaps as punishment for the victim’s attempt to break out of the dependent role.

Here’s an example…If an abusive person says hurtful things and makes you cry, and instead of apologizing and taking responsibility, starts recommending treatments for what he or she calls “your depression” or “your mood swings,” you are in the presence of a gas lighter.

So, next time, when someone says, “If it’s true, why didn’t they tell?” or “Don’t feel sorry for someone who just stays in a situation like that!” Understand, that there is so much more going on psychologically that you nor anyone else who’s never experienced brainwashing can comprehend. True the victim does protect the abuser most of the time. Trust me…..”IT’S OUT OF FEAR.” This is how perpetrators ‘silence the lambs.”

Mentally and physically, the effects of 14 years of ‘gas lighting’ took a big toll on me. My ‘alters’ protected me from feeling much more of the abuse than was felt. Did I develop maladaptive coping skills from a very young age? Yes, of course. They worked well at the time to help me survive some of the horrific traumas of my life. Now, they just interfere with daily life. PTSD, social phobias, OCD, rages, flashbacks, body memories, etc. are what my days and nights consist of these days. Life is better on some days rather than on others. This, however, are the effects of a lifetime of abuse perpetrated on who ‘had it all’ and became a ‘head case’ over time. Look at the events of many forms of abuse in my life and tell me who were and still are the ‘head cases?’

Dissociative Identity Disorder is in no shape, form or fashion an easy thing to deal with on a daily basis. It’s scary as hell for me most of the time. I won’t nor can I even begin to imagine what it’s like for my wife. Our son, he’s learning on a different level all of Momma D’s parts. Every single day our family is in a battle with this disorder. On an individual level, we’re in a war to put the pieces of the memories back together and deal with them as they should’ve been dealt with many years ago.

Every morning, as long as I choose to put one foot in front of the other, they don’t win. The day I lay down directly or indirectly in a permanent manner is the day they win. I think you know enough about me to know that I come from a long line of coaches that demanded and would accept nothing less than winners. ‘Winners’ in their eyes were more than just numbers on a scoreboard. There’s only one way I know how to operate….”Get knocked down 1000 times. Get back up 1001 times.” This too is a gift.

This lamb is no longer going to be silent. Abuse is real.

#Thispuzzledlife

May 30, 2019June 1, 2019 darnold1975

Happy “Legal” Anniversary

2.25.15

“If someone could reach into my chest and tear out my heart and turn it into a living, breathing person, “Melody” would be it..”

– Airicka Pheonix

February is a month on my calendar that will always be remembered specifically because of Sarah’s passing. There are very few dates that I remember that hold so very close to my heart. Mel and I have been “legally” married for 4 years now. I really don’t know what the exact date is not because marrying her wasn’t important but rather that was the day that the government said we were married. The horrible date of May 17, 1997 when I legally signed my own “abuse warrant” by marrying my “EX” husband, was replaced by a beautiful date of May 28, 2007. This was the date that Mel and I married each other in our hearts. There are soul mates as friends and family. Nothing can compare to soul mates with the right spouse.

We were instantly friends and devoted to each other. I have always been one where the term “friendship” isn’t just thrown around like a household word. There was something different about her and I knew it but was afraid to admit that I loved her. Firstly, I hadn’t stepped out of the elusive closet as being gay. All I knew was that there was this person who I was finally “safe” with both emotionally and physically.

I told her at the beginning of our relationship that I had a lot of emotional baggage from a very long and very abusive relationship. She didn’t care. She loved me for me and everything that would come with it. I’ve tried pushing her away in every way possible to prove to her that I’m not worth loving. I was someone’s “sloppy seconds” after a 14 year stretch. I felt as though there was nothing good left of me. I knew that I could be her friend, but “marriage” scared the absolute hell out of me.

I had a hardness about myself that was meant to keep people away. For some reason, she had me melting like butter on the inside. I knew how the rumors, comments and bibles would be thrown at us as a couple. I had dealt with that for many years and really just didn’t care. This was a whole new experience for someone that I loved dearly. I told her I could handle it again and I tried to help paint a picture of what this would look like as word got around. She didn’t care about that either. She just wanted to be with me. Needless to say, I just couldn’t understand that. What I had just experienced for many years was totally the opposite. My idea of a “marriage” was one that had nothing but fear attached to it. My thought was that no one is accepted for who they are without strings attached. And once you’re legally married, that means you’re property.

Things have been difficult to say the least about us being a gay couple. People were not going to be happy for us because we each had found someone who loved and respected us. To put it quite bluntly, our genitals were put on display instead. As you can imagine, our families were not thrilled. I actually think my mom went and put her head in the oven and turned it on. Not really, but pretty close. Even at the thought of being rejected by family members couldn’t deter us from wanting to be together. Have she and I both lost “friends” and “family” because of our relationship? Yes, of course. However, neither one of us are responsible for their feelings nor how they choose to act. We CAN determine whether or not we will be an audience to their ignorance and hatred.

Six months later, in the privacy of our house where we living together, on Christmas Eve, I proposed and she said YES! We wanted to get “legally” married and have children. We had no idea what all was involved both financially and legally to make this all happen. She very eagerly said that she had always wanted to carry a child. I very eagerly said, “Good because I didn’t.” I wanted to be a mom, but I had no desire to be pregnant. My ex-husband took the joy out of wanting to start a family which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. We didn’t have to really tell anyone because you could just see the happiness that we both shared. We also didn’t have the luxury of proclaiming our engagement because of such conservative views in that area of the country. And so the journey of being each other’s only support when it came to our relationship began.

My mental health issues seemed to get somewhat better from just being in a supportive environment with someone that genuinely loved me. We were both in graduate school and that was our first priority to finish. What was becoming increasingly evident was the PTSD that had developed from a lifetime of abuse. The safeness that I felt with her slowly started to reveal just what kind of damage had been done. All I wanted to do was finish school, get as far away from that area of the country and start a family. So, in June of 2009, Melody and I headed out to Albuquerque, NM to begin a new life. We didn’t know how anything was going to turn out. We just wanted to live life as a couple without all the stares and harassment. That, I can say, has happened since we moved west. Do we both miss friends and family? Yes more than anyone will ever know. Moving back there would come at a cost that we’re just not ready for as a family yet.

We would soon realize firsthand what the long term effects of abuse would manifest. She was fortunate to get a job with a company that provides fertility insurance. This was how we would make our dreams of having children a reality. On December 3, 2011, our little 5 lb preemie baby boy was born. Here we were as brand new parents to a preemie that we knew nothing about. We were out here by ourselves and had just entered the world of parenting. No one could’ve ever prepared either one of us for the feeling of having to leave the hospital without our baby boy. Every day I would drop Mel off at the hospital to spend the day at “Camp Marshall” while I went to work and then pick her up on the way home from work. Mentally, I couldn’t handle the thought of losing our newly born son so I just avoided seeing him at all costs. I was terrified of our son dying and tried to distance myself. This I now regret. We were both on auto pilot in different ways.

She continues to be the same very sweet and kind hearted woman that I initially met. She has a beauty within her that is hard to find in most people. She loves me despite my mental disorder and continues to want nothing but the best for me. What she and I have been through as a couple and now as a family is more than a lot of couples go by themselves in a lifetime. We can read each other like we’ve been together for 30 years or more.

People often wonder how we have made it as a couple. The truth is, since the very beginning of our relationship, we have always had to depend on each other for support. When you’re 18 hours from where you were raised and have no desire to go back to small town living, you’re forced to sink or swim. We have struggled both emotionally, physically and financially just like “straight” couples. We are in the process of raising a very energetic, superhero of a kid that only knows one thing….he is loved by his mommies and that he’s not going to have a baby “sisser” much to his displeasure. Mel melted my heart when I met her. Now 8 years later both she and our son continue to melt my heart. The way I try to make sense of a deep traumatic past regarding a marriage is that there will always be challenges in any relationship. Had I not had a horrible and abusive marriage, I wouldn’t be able to fully understand how my mom and dad have their own loving connection.

Thank you, Melody Landrum-Arnold for just being you! Thank you for continuing to love me despite the hatred for myself. Thank you for helping to make our dreams of becoming mothers a reality. Thank you for always having my best interest in mind while we walk this treacherous road of trauma recovery side by side.

My mom always told me growing up, “If you find a man a tenth of what your daddy is, you’ll have a good man.” My answer is, “I did find HER.”

#Thispuzzledlife

May 30, 2019June 1, 2019 darnold1975

Passing The Torch

Passing the Torch

2.17.15

“I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.”
― Gail Caldwell, Let’s Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship

Let me start off by saying that I am one of thousands of addicts/alcoholics whose life was touched by Sarah G. Pardue. I remember vividly lying in my bed, depressed and mad at the world that I was sitting in some “rehab” that was meant for people who lived on skid row or had no teeth. I was very quickly but gently told that addicts come in many different forms and that I just so happened to be one of them. I didn’t know who she was but there was something about her that attracted me to her. Not in a sexual way, but like there was more that I wanted and needed to know about this person. She very gently told me, “Dana, we’ll take this one step at a time.” I was so sour at the world that instead of thanking her for her kindness. I simply said, “Really, is that available stitched on a pillow.” I promptly proceeded to roll my eyes.

I guess maybe that comment or instincts kicked in about how I might be as a client. I was like a feral cat that was just angry and hurt. She had that perfect balance for me. She knew exactly how to push me without being condescending or aggressive. And she knew that I needed that very nurturing side to let me know that she was a human that didn’t have any intentions on hurt me.

I, unfortunately, can’t remember all 90 days of being a patient at Pine Grove’s Women’s Next Step Program, but I remembered the therapist that would forever change my life in a very unique kind of way. I was once handed a “character defect” worksheet where there were like one hundred or more on there that we were to circle as our personal character defects that have entangled our lives with addiction. I very quickly looked at both sides; handed the sheet back to her and said, “Nope. None of these describe me or my current, past or present behavior.” She had that “momma look” in her eye that can spark fear in Satan himself. She simply and very non-confrontational said, “Really? Would you like us all as a group help you pick out which ones belong to you?” I promptly answered, “No. I’m sure I can find a few.”

After 90 days of treatment at the “resort” as the husband at the time use to refer to it, I head out on my own with promises that I would one contact her in the event that I found my birth family or completed school. She had done a lot of something most people don’t really know how to do for me that made a huge impression on my life……LISTEN. To that struggling drug addict, that meant more than that next ‘high’ for me. I will admit that I didn’t go willingly. I also didn’t leave willingly even though I had completed the program because for once I was safe from most things. I cried because I was leaving a “special” and somewhat sterile environment from the outside world that was so mean.

About 5 years later, I tracked her down at work to tell her that I had gone back to school to become a drug/alcohol therapist and was currently in my undergraduate work. I also called to tell her that I been found my biological brother and was flying to meet him, 2 half brothers, my birth mom and birth father. We agreed to talk when I got back from my trip and that’s when the re-connection emotionally began for me. From that point forward, I felt like I owed her the unpayable because she had done the one thing that no one besides my parents and certain close friends had never done, at that point, not give up on me. She always saw some form of potential that even today I still can’t see.

She slowly began and I allowed her to begin to love me until I could love myself. Under the hard exterior, I was melting like butter. I was a kid again with an adult separate from my parents that seemed to love me and listen anytime I said anything. She knew that I was still married to my ex-husband and I was also doing internships under her and a couple other people. It was like everything had come full circle. She and her now deceased husband Doug Pardue became like surrogate parents to me.

They used some very tough love approaches to some of my behaviors and some I didn’t appreciate. I always, knew though, that it was done out of love. They would have “good cop, bad cop” sessions with me that made the show Cops look like pretend. I don’t know if some of you know what being “12 Stepped” means but I can tell you that I’ve had both of their shoes broken off in my hind parts, more than once to get my attention, in an attempt to save my life from whatever behavior was consuming me.

For whatever reason, the stars lined up perfectly again and she is now simply called “mom.” Our friendship grew into something much more special. She has been a “life force” for me for the last 14 years. They both saw me at my worst as a struggling addict of all kinds of addictions. And they were both there celebrating the victory of completing my undergraduate degree in psychology while finally leaving a very emotionally and sexually abusive marriage. Their compassion and my independence that I gained while becoming educated led to me believing that I was not nor would I ever be all those things I had been told all those years by him. I was the only one that could make that change. I wanted someone to come rescue me. This time, though, the realization was that I had to do this scary part on my own.

I became part of their family and she and I had lots of talks about life, in general. We always told each other that we loved one another no matter what. I also was getting to learn from the one that I considered as the “master” of counseling. I watched her every move both at work and away from work. I wanted to learn everything I could possibly learn from the “Yoda of 12-Step.” The key that she taught me to working with others was not with words but with actions. She quite simply taught me the definition of compassion. I’ve never lost the feeling of an innocent stranger that was getting paid a salary, that for once, cared about what I had to say about what had been done to me and how I felt.

A few months down the road she introduced me to my now legally married wife. She played matchmaker which was never intended. I’m glad the universe saw fit that we be together. We have a beautiful little boy and one on the way to thank all because of Sarah G. Pardue. Both she and Doug took me under their wings and showed me again that a healthy love was possible. I might not ever fully understand why they did that. However, grateful doesn’t begin to describe the feelings I have about what they did both directly and indirectly in changing the direction of my life.

I did complete a master’s degree in counseling in 2009. I have fallen in love with working with the ones that always seem to be the “leftovers of society.” Truly, this is partially due to my own trauma. But the other reason is because of the example that she set for me time after time. She didn’t just talk recovery, she lived recovery. The clients that she worked with saw this and you couldn’t help but to gravitate to something you don’t see every day in a person……AUTHENTICITY.

Sarah fulfilled her passionate dream of working with drug addicts/alcoholics and touched many lives. There is only 1 of the 30 women that I was in treatment with, at the time that I stay in contact with. She also happens to be the only one that never relapsed. I’ve had my struggles for sure. And the other former patient has been a prayer warrior for Sarah during her time of grief and acceptance of the death of her husband and her own illness that took her life.

As I sit in this hospital room, waiting for her time to meet her maker, past friends and family members. I also think about how much she impacted my life in a positive way. I’m just one addict that she took time with and let them know that there was still value in a person who had been told for so long that there was no value left. She did addiction work for 20+ years. How many addicts/alcoholics lives did she impact in ways that no one will ever know? To me her concept of counseling was very simple, “Read the person, not the book.” She taught me things about counseling that no book could ever convey. You just have to be able to watch the miracle happen.

What an example of true love, compassion and everything authentic that many of us as her patients, friends, family and co-workers got to see displayed even when she no longer went to work. The word RECOVERY has her picture out beside it. What a beautiful person that God loved me enough to allow into and bless my life. And because of her love and continuous fight against the war on the “disease of addiction” my future clients will also in some very special way will be touched by her as well. With tears in my eyes and streaming down my face, I can say that there are many people that will always remember the legacy that she left on the hearts of many addicts/alcoholics that didn’t deserve another chance.

I have taken that same compassion and concept into my own style of counseling. She has passed the torch to be paid forward as she did with many of us. I remember that everyone is individual and will have individual needs. Above all, she taught me compassion before judgment because in everyone there is some worth. Thank you for loving me, Sarah G. Pardue!!!!!

And she is now with the love of her life, Doug Pardue. You two will be dearly missed.

Sarah G. Pardue

7/11/53-2/11/15

“You were born a child of light’s wonderful secret— you return to the beauty you have always been.”
― Aberjhani, Visions of a Skylark Dressed in Black

#Thispuzzledlife

May 30, 2019 darnold1975

Fears And Anxieties

Fears and Anxieties

August 4, 2014

“Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are your own fears.”

—-Rudyard Kipling

Most people who know me would say that I’m very much a “social butterfly.” I loved being around people. Hell, my motto has always been..”The more, the merrier.” These days I would rather have my uterus pulled through my nostrils than to be around people. Being on the opposite side of the country from where my abuse occurred definitely helps. Regardless of whether or not they are “rational or irrational” they are still fears that I face every single day. Some of the fears and/or phobias, I haven’t had to deal with in a very long time. Not all of the fears do I know the origin? That, I suppose, is what is happening through this therapeutic process.

So, on our latest trip to the small, southern town everything that had already been opened was immediately exacerbated by being back in the town where the abuse occurred. Our little family, drove back there in search of some specialized treatment. I was nervous, but desperate……so I agreed. What I encountered when I arrived was a host of feelings and emotions that I couldn’t handle. Even the thought of going back to that town can trigger lots of anxiety, nausea, vomiting and migraines. Being there in the flesh, I’ve realized causes more harm than good. We are considered a “minority family” and I have always expected the looks and comments when we go out in public. I also wear a haircut that’s not considered “normal” there. So, this also brings about stares and comments. Remember, that with PTSD, situations can be perceived as a threat even when there isn’t one. For me, being in public and around people is like lighting my skin, mind and body on fire. I can’t possibly keep an eye on everyone and their actions to assure “safety” for both me and my friends and family.

When I was married to my ex-husband, the how I ate and what I ate always came under great scrutiny. So, many times, I would wait until he would go to bed and eat what I wanted. My greatest fear was that he would see me eating and make his venomous comments again. My weight was always monitored in some way by him. So, going back to visit has very, much intensified my fears of eating. I don’t like eating in front of people I know for fear of judgmental comments or thoughts. These fears are what fueled my eating disorder when I was a teenager. Eating in public, now only happens with shades on and Ipod going all while having just “medicated” before I even leave the house. That is the only way that makes being in public even possible, at this point.

Another thing that I have realized is a HUGE trigger for me is change. Keeping things the same in my surroundings is very safe feeling. I hate it when I walk into an area that I’m very familiar with and it has been changed. This sets off “red flags” about my surroundings being different and thinking that I should be very concerned that something or someone might harm me. This is also why I do very well with a rigid schedule. If my schedule is going to change in any manner, I have to know ahead of time so, I can mentally prepare. I don’t, however, do well with rigid people. Once again, I’ve been perpetrated by very rigid/narcissistic people. Any hint of this from a person, sets off fireworks throughout my mind and body.

I told you earlier that music got me through a lot of abuse. And now, it’s helping me while I’m attempting to heal from the abuse. Music always spoke for and to me in a way that I can understand. My music choices are very eclectic and for a good reason. If you’ve ever been around me much, you know that my moods are just as eclectic. Lmao!!!!

#Thispuzzledlife

May 27, 2019May 28, 2019 darnold1975

Memories That Come To Life

8.21.14

“I feel no emotional connection to these outwardly human gestures.
I am not there, because I never left Afghanistan.”
― Jake Wood, Among You: The Extraordinary True Story of a Soldier Broken By War

We recently went to the “small, southern town” thinking that I could do some ‘special’ therapy there. This is a ‘trial and effort’ type of situation for us in dealing with my disorder. We soon realized that doing therapy and even being in the state was causing more harm than good. I couldn’t relax enough mentally or physically to be able to do the therapy. There are just too many harmful emotions and people that are associated with that area. When we do visit, I’m constantly watching EVERYTHING and EVERYONE. Saying that someone is ‘safe’ doesn’t mean shit to me! I luckily don’t remember what all of what was said and done. I do remember how the feeling was like having my skin peeled off.

It’s a very conflicted feeling of wanting to be there but not wanting to step foot near that area. Most of my high school teammates, my parents, our really close friends, people who support us, the fields that I put my body on the line to be a good athlete, the great memories of the terms “team” and “family, and the house I grew up in. But also, are the memories of the all the abuse. I always make a point to go by and visit both my friends, former classmates and my grandmother’s grave at their respective cemeteries. I sit late at night next to the leftfield line where I experienced what the term ‘love’ was all about for the first time. I think many times about how much fun we had as players and the things we got away with because we were high school athletes. But, those thoughts always become overshadowed by what was going on, seemingly in another life.

I ride around that city and all I see and think is the horror that no one claims to know about but me. There are those that I know recall what happened to me with the teacher. They knew about it, knew it was wrong, and did nothing about it. Everywhere, I seem to go in that city is a very bad reminder of what happened. Some people have tried to say, “Just let the past go!” Tell me how and I’ll do it. That’s usually where the conversation about that ends. I usually feel like I can’t escape the ‘nightmare’ that I had already lived. I just wanted to go to my NEW home, Albuquerque. Petal will always be the town where I was raised, taught manners, good food and respect. But a lot of healing has to take place for me to be able to consider it anything other than a ‘nightmare.’ I have a lot of people there that I’m very close too. However, I can’t even enjoy a visit with them because I’m so on edge about everything.

I was told by my ex-husband about the molestation that, “that happened a long time ago, what in the hell can you do about it now?” I have never forgotten that statement. I instantly felt like I had been emotionally raped because it wasn’t a big deal to him. He told me later, “I have spoken with your parents about the molestation incident and they told me that they don’t believe that it happened because you would’ve told them about it.” I didn’t know it then, but they still had no idea what had actually happened. I had made sure of that for a very long time. I was devastated from what he told me. I figured that with him being my husband that surely he would be empathetic that it happened. I don’t know if he ever believed me or not. But, I do know that there was never any empathy shown towards me about that subject in any way. “Dana, it’s a &@*# play with it!” is not the way to help that person heal. It actually re-traumatizes them. I now know what he told me was a lie. All I’ll say about that topic is that I rarely talk about it because of the shame of the abuse.

I’m actually reading a book that is explaining exactly what ‘wife rape’ is. The book actually explains a lot to me. I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over at times. So, reading a book is usually a feat. I start seeing the canvas of words slowly form a picture of what looked like me. I read further and could so identify with some of the other survivors. I thought, “Now, I have an explanation for part of the 14 year ‘mind fuck.’” However, what I noticed is that slowly a repeat of an incident began to unfold. I couldn’t stop it. I was silenced. I saw his mouth and lips move. I saw the redness of his face. Some saw me as being lucky to be married to such a well known guy.

Unfortunately, his abuse was reserved for the party of 1…..me. He was different around other people. I knew him for who he was. He was the product of the abuse from his father. I was told, “There are no marks on you! No one will believe you anyway! You’re the one with the mental history!” Then the feelings began to rush to my heart, stomach and brain where the nausea and migraine ensued. I looked around and realized that I was sitting in my chair. For a split second, though, everything was very real but from a different time. I looked down and the book was still opened to the page I had been reading. I vaped a little mmj (medical marijuana) and then went and tried to relax in the bed while my body thought that I had just been on a run from a dog. Everyone else was already fast asleep.

Both my days and nights are like this at times. The visions and memories are so real, in fact, that vomiting often follows. It seems like it never ends. I hope for better days sometimes. Right now, it feels like I’m feeling it all over again. All I know to do it hit it, whatever it is, ‘head on each time.’ Even if you are scared, you NEVER dodge an opponent! You always step on the court or up to the plate ready to play ball!

#Thispuzzledlife

May 27, 2019May 28, 2019 darnold1975

Traveling

8.16.14

“The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems.
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”
― Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase: By Andrea Gibson

This morning begins as usual just stirring in our bed trying to wake my senses up. Automatically, I look around the room to see if I should be alarmed by anything new or out of place. I sit up on the side of the bed and soon the physical symptoms are on me like a ‘pit bull on a steak.’ The horrible headache that is becoming increasingly worse by the minute is initially unphased by my medical marijuana lying close by. My body feels pain down to its cells. I’m having muscle cramps making me question if all of the effort to get better is actually worth it. Why do I hurt like this? If my body is purging itself of the poisons created by the trauma on a cellular level, then I wish it would hurry the hell up. I did notice that I started getting sick yesterday afternoon. I discounted it from being in public for a few minutes yesterday. Today is different….every morning that this is happening has me feeling that I’m paying penance for something. When is my next acupuncture session? At least, I get a couple of days of almost no physical symptoms. Alas, the marijuana is working well enough for me to get Marshall dressed and taken to school. This morning is all about physical symptoms. The feeling is not consciously about social anxiety. But, rather…”Don’t let me puke on the way or when I pull up at the daycare.”

I think to myself…

“I finally make it back home. Now, I’m locked in and safe. But, now I’m alone. Anything could happen. Instant ‘shock and awe’ stomach cramps. Can I ever have a day, that for most people is just a mediocre ‘ok day?’ My body and mind is on fire! The feel of air on my skin is like hot tar being poured on me. My back feels like I was impaled with something sharp. My muscles all over my body feel like they have begun disintegrating. My jaw and teeth feel like they could fall in my lap at any moment. My body must be detoxing, but from what? It must’ve been something I did yesterday. But what did I do and where did we go if anywhere?”

Losing time for some people is nothing more than daydreaming, missing an exit on the interstate, or getting enthralled in a good book. However, the term “losing time” for me and my family can have very scary and unique meanings from the average family. Everyone, at one time or another, forget your keys or something that you meant to take with you to the store. You suddenly remember, that it’s the list that you have made with what you needed. You go home, find the list where it was left, get back in the car, and head off to the store. No harm, no foul. You don’t qualify for a diagnosis because of it. As a former therapist said to me, “Welcome, to the Human Race!”

My first memory of losing any type of time was in the 8^th grade. While being in that closet, I went elsewhere. It seemed somewhat familiar but ‘safe.’ I don’t remember what the scene was or where I went, it just wasn’t in that closet. I seemed to be locked in a type of paradise. Every once in a while I would hear, “Are you listening to me?!”

By the time I got to high school, I felt like I got a new start. I was now 20 lbs lighter even though I did it unhealthy. I was excelling in the sports I was playing. I was dropping weight seemingly every day. No behavior problems reported by teachers. I was pushing my body passed its limits but I was ok or so I thought. This was the first year that I actually remember ‘losing extensive time.’ What is the difference? Well, instead of a few moments that we all lose naturally. I had lost an entire week. I knew that I had ballgames that week so, how did I not remember how I played? I was doing a lot of diet pills at the time. So, that was the answer. I remember thinking, “It’s nice to be back. But, where was I?”

Skipping a few years, to when I was married to my now EX-husband. There were times that I remember seeing his mouth move but not hearing or knowing what was said. That was fine with me. I didn’t know why it was like that but I was completely ok. There were also those times when I would hear his first loud venomous word and then I would slowly fade away. I could see him hollering at me but not hear or feel any of it. My cutting really took off in this relationship and I realized that the same mental and physical stuff happened then too. I didn’t think anything about it but I knew that my thoughts that I had were very, loud and continuous. I couldn’t dare mention this to the narcissist. Everything that ever happened to me was a joke and made fun. I would just keep my comments quiet and assume all the blame which is what they want. Feelings belonged somewhere, but on my sleeves… VERY UNSAFE.

Several years later, I meet Melody and other things begin to happen. Why would this happen around her? I didn’t understand and she surely wouldn’t either. I just played everything off like, “I did a lot of drugs and they fried me.” I didn’t tell her about what seemed like separate conversations to myself in my brain. Everyone, surely has “loud” thoughts. Heck, I wasn’t even divorce yet. This type of stuff sometimes happened when he hollered at me or I was cutting. Why with Melody when she was a ‘safe’ person? I was still watching and waiting for her true colors to come out and hurt me. In the 7 years that I’ve known and loved her, I have the opportunity to see her true colors every day and they are a beautiful rainbow. She’s genuine and I think somehow I must’ve known that back then. We were in graduate school together and taking the same classes. So, to be able to pay attention, I would have to play games on my phone while they were lecturing. I explained this to my professors before hand and they completely understood. We thought that we were dealing with a college ADD thing. Mel still had to re- explain the lecture once we got home. Once I got it and was able to ‘feel’ the connection of the material, It’s locked away. So, graduate school was a bit more difficult for me, but that makes me no less of a graduate. I just had to do things a little differently for me to be able to comprehend the information. Even back in elementary days, I remember crying because I couldn’t answer the questions about the story that we had just read. Trial and error is how we acclimated to our situation and we do the same thing now.

My physical symptoms have me very sick so I’ll continue tomorrow. NAMASTE!!

#thispuzzledlife

#Thispuzzledlife

May 7, 2015August 10, 2019 darnold1975

Hello world!

I initially started blogging about 5 years ago. I’m originally from the deep south in Petal, MS. It’s exactly half way between Gulfport, MS and Jackson, MS and just across the bridge from Hattiesburg, MS. Petal has a population around 11,000 now but growing up as a small child and teenager there were significantly less people. Small town USA complete with the noisiness, conservative politics, religion, strong beliefs, great food, respect taught through the generations, southern hospitality, friendly neighbors who are loyal as family, resilient, head strong and loyalties within a “good ole’ boy network.” No more loyalties than any other small town I’m sure. But this “loyalty” hurt me and changed the course of my life forever.

Me and my wife completed Master’s degree in Couseling and then moved to Albuquerque, NM to begin our careers and start a family. But as life would have it, Mental Illness began to effect our hopes and dreams one day at a time. A few years later I would be diagnosed correctly….finally…with Dissociaitve Identity Disorder. We would eventually have two little boys that we adore and make you want to keep going with things get difficult.

My writing is about the struggles of living as an individual and LGBT family with a parent with severe mental illness. The sometimes the humor of it all and the often heartbreaking reality of the effects of abuse and mental illness on the indivial and family unit as a whole will keep those that struggle from feeling that you live on an island. And the families will see that you can love someone with a mental illness without becoming a prisoner to their behaviors. And maybe you will also see that the struggle for us as your family memeber have more struggles then what we let on at times.

Anyway, enjoy the laughs and tears with our family as they support me while I search for the puzzle pieces of an abusive life. I will say this…I don’t sugar coat anything. Sometimes my blogs can be graphic but abuse isn’t pretty. I’m in the process of healing so topics are frequently repeated and attitudes change from positive to dark. Either way, this is MY life and MY therapeutic journey towards healing. Hold on because this ride is bumpy.

Hit the “Follow” button and watch us grow. I don’t write every day because my functionality can change on a dime. I cover many different topics related to abuse and mental illness. This blog builds so read from the beginning and see Where we were. Where we are now. And where we are going. Happy Reading!

#thispuzzledlife

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