April 14, 2020 darnold1975

I Am The Problem And The Solution

“Dana, if you would get out of your own way, you could accomplish anything.”
—Sarah Pardue

One of the topics that keeps my stomach in knot is how I am both the problem and the solution of my own life. I can be the solution for my trauma. But I can also stand in my own way as the problem. Anytime I give into my addictive behaviors I have become my own problem. I will take and destroy anything that I work so hard for because of this. Things that I hold sacred I will unknowingly destroy because I feel that I’m not worthy of good things. I am also the solution to the problem of fixing anything that comes before me. This I have proven time and time again. I have both the knowledge and the power to change anything unhealthy. I just must dig deep and pull out all the teachings and reverse not give into what seems to be maladaptively comforting at the time.

What I must do is to reverse the messages that were taught to me through abuse. And stand up face-to-face with it and say, “today I choose to live differently.” And make the change better. I haves versus how I live which is to breakdown and give into that train of thought. I deserve better and want better. I have worked hard to be who I am and deserve a better life of constant abuse that I continually replay through my own behavior.

Therefore, I chose the topic that I am the solution and the problem. Sarah and Coach have both taught me that I can’t give away what I don’t have. If I keep giving my recovery away or interfering in the process of changing, then how do I expect to be healthy and pay it forward by giving it away to someone else who I might meet that is also struggling. The choice is up to me. Not, Sarah’s teachings nor Coach’s current teachings. I treasure them all. So, the greatest give that could give them both is to see me overcome these old ways of thinking that were engrained in my thinking by perpetrators. I will be the solution even through tears and a heavy heart at times. Remember…. I’m the comeback kid.

In closing I can say that if I can ever turn around and have a positive self-image and love myself, as much as, other people love me, I will accomplish great things. Maybe my writing will help and maybe it won’t. But loving oneself is not something that happens overnight. It takes continually telling myself that I AM worthy of great things.

#thispuzzledlife

April 14, 2020April 14, 2020 darnold1975

The Fear Of Eating Is Real(poetry)

Fear Of Eating Is Real
Food is a topic that makes me very sad
And I barely remember of normal days I had
He took away a relationship that was full of hope
Now when someone says food all I say is Nope!!!
His words constantly criticized me so much decisions come with tears
It hasn’t happened for days but for many, many years.
I’m scared to eat because he was there for a long time
Right over my shoulder to criticize me while I ate every single time
I want to be able to eat without solitude and tears.
In private I’ve eaten food for many years
Most take this action for granted and just eat with nothing to say
But the person I was abused by never had anything nice to say anyway
So, don’t make comments while I try to learn this skill
Because the fear of eating food is something that’s for real.
#thispuzzledlife

April 13, 2020 darnold1975

It’s Not About The Food

It’s Not About the Food

“Girls developed eating disorders when our culture developed a standard of
beauty that they could obtain by being healthy. When unnatural thinness
became attractive, girls did unnatural things to be thin.”
–Mary Pipher

This is a repost from a few years ago that never made it to my current blog.
One of the things that I’ve learned the most about my many maladaptive behaviors is that the perfect storm had arrived to ensure me having eating disorders when I was a very impressionable teenager. Not only was it teenagers having issues with body image. It was also the abuse that occurred during that time and the things that were said but also my impression about what had occurred and what was done. As a part of the abusive teacher’s very hateful nature was the being humiliated about myself as a human being in front of my peers. I was put on display a lot of the time and made to stand in front of the class while being made fun of without having any type of recourse. If I ever said anything back, I was punished by both she and the administration who clearly had no idea to what extent her abusive nature was. She, on more than one occasion would tell me when the rodents would get into my food in my locker “It doesn’t look like you need food anyway.”

My high school years during which I kept those eating disorders alive and well I became a sickly 83 lbs and ruined any of my hopes of playing athletics in college. What I was left with was a life of painful eating disorders that I still struggle with daily. These behaviors were further compounded when I met my ex-husband who disguised his personal reason for wanting to help me by encouraging the eating disorders in his own way.
I was made to weigh for him sometimes weekly because “I’m not going to be married to a fat ass” he would always say. He would also tell me that “it’s ok to have fat friends but you don’t have to look like them.” He micromanaged my food to the extent that that I was only allowed to eat what he approved of and nothing else. To make sure this happened he would allow me only 10 pistachios and 10 olives to eat while at work working two jobs. He would also sit out in the parking lot to make sure I didn’t eat anything that was not what he allowed. When I would tell him that I was hungry his supportive line was “No pain no gain.”

He would also leave random newspaper clippings around the house about the latest weight loss diets and/or make me take pictures of myself in swimsuits or naked, put them on the refrigerator and tell me “next time your fat ass gets hungry look at this picture and maybe you won’t want to eat.” He would also make comments if we went out to eat about how all the people were looking at me because I was a fat ass. He would say, “If you don’t like them staring at you then don’t be a fat ass.” If we had dinner with his family, he would wait until we left to criticize either what I ate or how I ate. And many times, these comments were said where other people could hear them. He would also say, “Did you have to eat that much of whatever we had for dinner? You eat like a prisoner who’s about to have their tray stolen! And that is why I must tell you how, when and where to eat. Because you’re too dumb to do it on your own. You’ve already proven that time and time again.” Eating quickly became the most dreaded activity I had to deal with daily. My goal was to try to get through life with him eating as little as possible. As you can imagine I did do that to his standards either.

The message that was conveyed to me was that no matter what I did it would never be to his irrational standards. I was also expected to be at the gym to workout mornings at 5:00 am. Being a well-known guy in the city he knows many people and that included the employees at the gym. So, he would call to verify my being there and what types of workouts I was doing. If I ran 4 miles, he would want to know why I didn’t “gut it out” and run 5 miles.

Years of his verbal abuse, threats, and sexual abuse slowly broke me down. People who don’t understand why individuals stay in relationships like this often say, “Well he only did what you let him do,” cannot possibly comprehend what this does to your psyche. Those types of hurtful comments are why most suffer in silence and don’t ask for help. After all, sometimes it was the easiest and safest thing to do by just going along with whatever his demands that they were no matter what they were. He had me convinced that I was nothing without him. He and his brother tormented me for years and continue to do so internally. But again, they were both raised by a father who was also a malignant narcissist and a mother who worked at home without an education until much later in life. So really, she had nowhere to go with three children and no education. So, for many men and women in these types of relationships that don’t leave usually have a damn good reason for staying. There’s always more to the story behind those closed doors than what you realize. My own parents had no idea the extent of the abuse that I was having to deal with daily. Such is a life with a malignant narcissist.

Even now if someone tries to take a verbal jab at me while in a public place or group setting my “verbal sniper” becomes activated and a one-sided war will ensue. I have found that striking the first blow is a way that I can set the tone that I will NOT be hurt by whoever it is that I feel is a personal threat either imagined or real. All I must do is see this as a possible threat. Anyone that I perceive as an authority figure, I absolutely will not make eye contact with if possible.

I guess the message I’ve tried to convey is that eating disorders and other maladaptive behaviors are about something much deeper than society sees them. You see the signs and symptoms and I feel the weight of the trauma every minute of every day. To this day I will chose not to eat because the internal war about what to eat is just too painful. When I do eat, I can never be full and satisfied because full means fat to me. If I do feel full, I must purge with laxatives to get rid of that feeling. It’s not a binging thing it’s an eating thing. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…. IT’S NOT ABOUT THE FOOD.

Understand this as well…. I’m done trying to live my life carrying my trauma and the trauma those two boys in adults’ bodies. I will NOT continue to be a part of the cycle of not working on my own trauma just to have mine and theirs to be spewed out onto other innocent and unsuspecting people. This is a work in progress no doubt, but the cycle dies with me. I’ve proven that I can live through it. Now it’s time to prove I can live without it. All I need was to find a coach to help with this and I did.

#Thispuzzledlife

April 12, 2020 darnold1975

The Pain Of Eating (Poetry)

The Pain Of Eating
Food and body image are painful to me
I hate them both and they’re painful to see
The memories of abusive things I had to do
It’s not about the food but look what his words they can make you blue.
Eating brings lots of pain
It makes me cry, just watch it rain.
The memories are never gone
And their effect is always shown
Please don’t look because I know you can see
What his words about body image has done to me.
#thispuzzledlife

April 10, 2020 darnold1975

Why Didn’t I Leave A Harmful Therapist

Why I Didn’t Leave A Harmful Therapist?

“The reality is that for most of us trying to overcome therapist abuse (regardless of whether it is sexual, emotional, spiritual, etc.) very few other people have any idea what we are going through (even the mental health professionals we finally get up the courage to see after the abusive ones to try and pull ourselves back together). And because of that, healing can be significantly more difficult than it should be.”
—Michelle Mallon

I’m having a difficult time trying to find the words to describe my experience. The therapist that I’m talking about is one who was very ego driven. She put her ego before her ethics. And when it came to practice EMDR it was done 4 days a week with no processing time. She was also a very dominate and alpha female. I just went along with whatever she said and then I started becoming sick and before therapy I began to vomit. She worked her way into my system and began working with my main protector to whom she gave a lot of attention to in order to get to our well protected children. All my trauma was turned on with EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), but nothing was ever resolved. This form of therapy usually works well for those with trauma, but I was always in crisis mode making it very dangerous to use this method.
Mel and I were lied to more often than we could count. And she didn’t want Mel’s input on anything. Red flags were flying high and I was still about giving her a chance in the name of loyalty. She also knew that I wasn’t a snitch, so she never worried about me turning her into the state licensing board. My psychiatrist was also considering dropping me as a client because she was retraumatizing me. While having him prescribing my meds was impossible. Before I knew it, I had become trauma bonded to her just like my ex-husband. I feared doing anything other than what she wanted. There was also information that was given to an acupuncturist that was done outside of the date on the release of information form. I had become her emotional hostage. I was looking for the good times that I remembered about the promises that she had made and well…I came up empty handed.

Like many times with other perpetrators in my life I became frozen with fear about what to do. So, out of fear I continued seeing her. It’s easy to say, “Well just leave her and turn her in.” But I was terrified to do anything. I became very suicidal and my behavior became very erratic and impulsive more than normal. The one thing I learned when I was younger was snitching gives you a very dangerous label. So, no matter what, I was not going to snitch.

Therapist abuse is using the imbalance of power in the therapeutic relationship to… Control, manipulate and exploit clients (https://patch.com/maryland/odenton/what-is-therapist-abuse).
Clients who have suffered abuse in the past may not be able to distinguish between what is a violation and what is therapeutic (https://patch.com/maryland/odenton/what-is-therapist-abuse).
The power and influence the therapist has, has a lot of potential to do a lot of good and by the same token it also has the power to cause severe damage that could have long lasting effects on the client (https://patch.com/maryland/odenton/what-is-therapist-abuse).

When I met “Coach” I was so afraid of professionals that I didn’t want to have anything to do with her or any other therapists. I related their position to fear and abuse. I was unbelievably scared of anyone that I perceived in a position of authority and would strike out at them and try to run them off. Coach saw through my pain and showed compassion instead. I was so hurt by some of the things that were done and said by the other therapist that almost four years later I’m still, at times, having difficulties in the therapeutic relationship. I trust coach 110% as a person. But her position as a therapist still frightens me at times especially when discussing certain areas of my trauma. I have always felt bad that she had to clean up and deal with someone else’s mess. But, I so glad I met her. After having such a bad and abusive therapist, it’s comforting to know that there are still some that are incredibly compassionate. And I got the best one. Yes, I’m very biased. Thanks, Coach!!!!
#thispuzzledlife

September 12, 2019April 20, 2020 darnold1975

The Wooden Door (Poetry)

The Wooden Door

You met me as an innocent child
If only for a little while
But even a little was too much
Because behind you is where I learned the meaning of
The word…. crutch.

Twist and turn my mind you did
Until that kid ran and hid
But you awakened that angry child
The one who would live life running wild.

Behind you is where the secrets lived
Because I couldn’t hang around to see what you did
She protected me from things I didn’t want to know
She took all the pain and it would show.

Red, purple and eventually white
That’s the colors of her painful stripes
Your evil would once again score
All behind that wooden door.
#thispuzzledlife

August 15, 2019 darnold1975

The Girl In The Closet (Poetry)

The Girl In The Closet

Enjoying school and playing sports
Dripping with sweat on shirts and shorts.
A dollar bill would be burning a hole in my pocket
She was only a number, but she was also the girl in the closet.

Most knew her name but not her number
She made them laugh even before Tumblr
The teacher never smiled, and we never knew why
Was someone mean to her? Did they make her cry?
The evilness she shot through her eyes made them want to vomit
She was only a number the girl in the closet.

The clown she was in those days
That happiness quickly became dark, ugly hate.
That closet was to teach me lessons.
And lessons it did…I learned how to drink, take pills, cut on my arms and put on gauze dressings
Because I was only a number and the girl in the closet.

Please!!!!I cried for someone to get me out of there
But they were being told different stories and I started pulling out my hair.
How could you not see that which was in front of you?
You questioned my parents and they questioned you.
What’s happened to my child and why is her heart so hurt
But I was just a number and the little girl in the closet.

They all knew and could see my spirit breaking day after day.
The hate would develop with words she would hear between September and May.
She was being changed from the inside out
She always had a practice where her aggression could be let out.

Her pills were quite the comfort and the razors were too
Because she had certainly learned some less and she hates herself and wants to turn blue.
She can’t breathe without thinking that finally someone must listen to what I say
The mental torture that continues day after day.
Now it’s my turn to tell you how we will play.
You didn’t even remember my number only that “I was the girl in the closet.”

#thispuzzledlife

June 21, 2019 darnold1975

The Hurt Child (Poetry)

The Hurt Child

6.2.2019

After 30 years I welcome you to see

A vision of the devil you carved out of me

I took your hate as a child the very best that I could

But these days I awake saying, “Bitch, I wish you would!”

Your words have haunted me all of these years.

And I lost count years ago on the number of tears.

That I shed for myself when no one else would.

Of course not around you but alone I could.

I’ve been very patient and it’s been a chore

Because while you’ve been enjoying your life, I’ve been fighting a war

One where not all of the wounds can be seen.

My smile has provided for me a social smoke screen.

It was my fault that others continued to get hurt.

I told no one, spoken was not one single word.

Columbine was much later and aren’t you glad

I regret not walking back into that school

for you because your ass I would’ve had.

You have hurt my kids through me and also my wife.

And that your you changed the course of my life

You’ve taken everything I worked so hard for and left me with nothing.

I sit here smoking weed trying to survive the memories just huffin’ and puffin’.

I’ll make that trip no matter what, so call me a hater

I don’t call it “revenge” I call it, “returning the favor.”

The day I show up you won’t know what to do

Because that 13 year-old hurt child is coming after you.

By: Dana Landrum-Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 21, 2019June 21, 2019 darnold1975

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, 2019March 2, 2020 darnold1975

Who Will Cry For The Little Girl?

6.13.2019

“The worst type of crying wasn’t the kind everyone could see–the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.”
― Katie McGarry, Pushing the Limits

Recently, there seems to be some type of shift that’s taking place in therapy. Coach and I have been working on a few things with “my guys” and that’s where it seems that the shift started. I can’t do much explaining other than my personal opinion because right now my job is to trust and let the fairy dust fly. The player/coach relationship that I had with my coaches was always considered very sacred to me. So, you can bet your ass that the “therapeutic relationship” that I have with coach is one that is very sacred and protected as well.

Tonight I was suddenly stopped in my tracks with a big dose of anxiety that instantly had me in tears. A lot of old and extremely painful feelings have been nipping at my heels and tonight was the breaking point. Crying in front of a therapist again has taken some getting used to. I didn’t say that it was comfortable but what it has been is……SAFE. After years of being made fun of, ridiculed and belittled for my tears, it makes doing what seems natural appear impossible at times. I can’t begin to explain how damaging abuse and “bad therapy” can deeply impact someone. What I can tell you about is the relief that is felt after months and, in this case, a couple of years watching so many things about a therapist and finally taking that chance again with my tears and not getting hurt. The unspoken message between stares that says, “I’m not going to make fun of you” instantly makes the tears fall faster. There’s not a monetary value that you can put on an experience like that. Your heart feels a pleasant but guarded relief and overwhelming grief all at the same time. Since that day a deeper level of trust and openness was achieved and therapy continues to evolve. Leaps and bounds is the Speed at which I’m doing work.

Last night I found a picture album that I had forgotten that I had stashed away in my room. Curious what pictures were in there I looked and felt a lump in my throat when I saw it was pictures of Marshall when he was younger. I was just being a proud momma until the pictures of him as a preemie in the NICU. Feelings ran hot/cold from head to toe. I felt the same fear that I had experienced when I was unable to hold him initially. I couldn’t understand why this was happening with our new baby. The guilt and shame was incredible then and still is now.

There were approximately 30-40 more pictures each with heavy emotions attached to each one. I sat there in the quietness of my bedroom and let the anxiety and 30 years of shameful grief overtake me. The tears were not gently rolling down my cheeks. I was “Snot crying” like a toddler in Wal-Mart. Each picture’s emotion was like it had been felt for the first time. I held my stuffed animals and wished for anything but aloneness. I needed someone to tell me that grief will not kill you. And that I couldn’t possibly cry enough tears to be seen in the emergency room for dehydration. Maybe I could try and understand it my way that I could make sense of things. The best possible explanation was that I was losing water weight. Yep…I got it after that. The grief I was feeling was just too much. Those pictures needed a better place to stay until they don’t have quite the sting that they do now. And I’m proud to say that those pictures have a new temporary home placement.

After adjustments were made with my guys a couple of weeks ago, the freedom for better communication has been allowed. What a sense of freedom and a new level of understanding I’m experiencing with my alters. Emotions are still very overwhelming for me. They’re almost always very intense whether or not they are positive or negative.

I began to feel the individual feelings that my alters experience daily. I have been coasting on laughter and anger for so many years that I seem to have forgotten how to experience some of these feelings on their most basic level. And just me, my stuffies and my guys would be here to deal with them all……ALONE. I was soon overcome with grief, loss, guilt and shame not for myself but for those children, teens and adults who were so mistreated. I know it’s weird hearing someone talk about different parts of themselves like they’re the poor, pitiful neighborhood kids. But to me they are all individuals. They just all live under one roof…MINE. Just roll with it.

I began to cry for the fear that each one experienced at a level that’s not easily put into words.

I cried for all of the anxiety, from the years of stress, that has left its permanent mark on my body physically.

I cry for the secrets that the children were forced into silence thus preventing help. And for the teens and adults that still keep secrets now because they still feel that they aren’t worthy of being helped.

I cry for the person that I use to be before the damage of the abuse showed such overwhelming evidence.

I cry for the children and their lost innocents.

I cry for those that needed and wanted help and it never arrived.

I cry for the fear of having relationships with people because when I was younger relationships came with an “OWIE.”

I cry for the adults who experienced every level of pain in a relationship for many years that was supposed to be one where love and protection were a natural reality. Unfortunately, though, relationships now equal fear.

I cry for the ones who had relationships with those trusted and respected people who have since died that had such a positive impact on us all. But the loss was so great that the impact can be felt with every failed relationship since.

I cry for the one that hurts so deeply over losses that she will sabotage anything good.

I cry for the ones that miss out on the joy of being able to enjoy food and eating. Because those times were used for target practice by others.

I cry for the little one that cries continuously. Her pain cannot be soothed. She has a hole in her soul that was created from rejection and abandonment. She craves security and safety that was lost in 1975 and 2015. Nothing and no one but me and the universe can hear her piercing cries.

And I cry for everyone who is doing their best to realize that love and compassion aren’t supposed to hurt.

And those who are also very slowly beginning to allow both empathy and compassion to collectively soften and re-warm the hearts that were tucked away for protection that have grown cold and necrotic. With the re-warming comes new and healthy growth. Hearts with healthy tissue begin to mend. The soul energy that had become so depleted will be renewed. Tears go from the color red back to clear. The masks of the clown and the devil will not be the only two available because there won’t be a need to looked through the eyes “masking” pain. That determined athlete will have a renewed sense of purpose and a new set of trusted and loved teammates. And a new coach who’s words of wisdom gets absorbed and held onto with a death grip. Self-worth and value become realized and then actualized. Scars begin to fade from fresh battle wounds to the scars of the war once fought. New and healthier ways of protecting myself will become the new breastplate that will be worn with pride knowing the work that was done to earn it. And another dynamic “coach” that will have motivated and pushed me with fairy dust to be the best possible “ME” that I could be. But the greatest gift that will be gained covers it all……AUTHENTICITY.

Who will cry for this little girl? The ones that live inside of me. She matters and so do they.

“I define connection as the energy that exists between people when they feel seen, heard, and valued; when they can give and receive without judgment; and when they derive sustenance and strength from the relationship.”
― Brené Brown

#thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019 darnold1975

I Came To You For Help (Poetry)

I Came To You For Help

I came to you for help

And I left with several whelps

None for eyes to see

But I still feel the wounding of how you treated me.

Pleading for someone to help me sort out my confusion

Not knowing from moment to moment when I would have another delusion.

The voices in my head were so incredibly loud

And I couldn’t eat or sleep and I freaked out in crowds

“I can treat anything” is what you said

But all you did was raise the demons in my head.

We lost our babies and Sarah too.

And after two years you didn’t have a clue.

I opened up to you and you perverted my truth.

It became a game of falsifying and being a sleuth

I got scared and I got hurt

And you twisted our words for only you to make it work.

No matter how many tears I cried

It still didn’t feel as bad as the day that I almost died.

I called and called like you asked me to do

Please tell me what I did to ever disrespect you.

My loyalty once again was

my weakness.

Why oh why does this have to be a source of bleakness

You were Too damn proud to admit defeat

I could see that you resembled someone that was set on repeat.

The very ones that you hurt you couldn’t even see

Would also be the ones that were crying their pleas

I guess I should be counting my blessings now and again

But I was your sloppy seconds that you let out of the pen.

Again I would try to get back on my feet.

I’ll never forget that painful week.

I searched and searched but I feared everyone

Hating the process of trying to find a trusted one.

Getting hurt by a “safe one” as you referred to yourself

You made it much more difficult to find real help.

The years of searching and this is my truth….

She cares about me and “my guys” and doesn’t give a shit about you.

By: Dana 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 19, 2019 darnold1975

Code Of Silence

The Code of Silence

“The predator wants your silence. It feeds their power,

entitlement, and they want it to feed your shame.”

—Viola Davis

When I first begin getting to know someone, the very first thing I look for is their level of snitch. What do I mean by this? Snitching is when you tell on someone to get yourself out of trouble. Another word for a snitch is a tattletale. To be labeled as a snitch socially is to be ostracized. In other circles being labeled as a snitch can get you killed. And snitching is a predator’s greatest enemy because that exposes secrets.

As a small child the term snitching wasn’t used yet. I did know what the term tattletale meant. And what hurting my friend’s feelings and damaging a relationship because of telling secrets meant. It meant people would be mad at me and I would have no friends. Even teachers at daycares can get tired of all the tattling. Step inside any daycare and you’re liable to hear, “The next child that tattles doesn’t go outside and play.” These are two dichotomous examples of telling information. My question to think about is are we teaching our kids the best and safest message? There are always exceptions to the rule. By the time these children are teens there’s an unwritten “code of conduct” around telling information whether it be relevant or not that might save lives. This will also get someone labeled as a snitch.

I can expand more about teens later, however, for the sake of this blog post I’m going to refer to myself as a young child. My first lesson in keeping secrets that should’ve been told was around 5 years-old. I was molested many times by my neighbor’s youngest and middle sons. These boys were around 13-15 years old and old enough to know better. The way I was held emotionally hostage was through threats like “the police would come and I would have my parents taken away.” I was also told, “that I would make people mad and no one would want to be my friend. And it would be all my fault.”

This little girl named Dana would do everything possible to make sure both she and her family was safe. From a child’s point of view, I hung on to every scary word spoken. And afterwards they would tell me how beautiful I was. The searing pain that would burn my body would leave an imprint on my psyche even today. The pain and fear would start and I would leave somewhere in my mind where pain was not felt. Still to this day, I’m very confused in just about every way in regards to having been molested.

People that seek power over other people instill in their victims that telling about abuse is a sign of weakness. As a teenager, anytime I told or tried to tell about the abuse to the school administration this information would get back to the teacher making the abuse worse. The message I got from doing that was to “forget asking for help and save yourself.” After the abuse of my 8th grade year, I vowed that as long as I was around to witness someone needing defending or help I would step in and protect in whatever way that I could. This has bought me unnecessary trouble with coaches and friends but to me it was worth it. I could then lay my head on my pillow at night and sleep.

One night after Mel and I had been speaking to a class at the college, A mother from that class asked me where I went to middle school. I told her Petal Middle School and she asked about the teacher that was so abusive. Because her 8th grade son would come home from school every afternoon with tears in his eyes due to being called names in front of his classmates by a teacher. She told me the teacher she was speaking about and after my heart dropped into my stomach I said, “Unfortunately, ma’am that is who I was speaking about.” She asked, “What should I do?” I told her, “Tell someone and get your child in counseling like yesterday.” I don’t know whatever happened to that mother and her child’s situation. The information I shared with her helped she and her son? However, a big load of shame and guilt was dumped on me as penance for that child and any other children after me that I kept the secret about the abuse ,consequently, leaving the predator unscathed and in the driver’s seat to handpick her next teen victim with ease.

The small little southern city with air tight politics and a nose for people’s business other than their own was to my detriment that year. I was told many years later by one of the administrators that worked there my middle school years information that still burns my ears. I was told, “You were a child at that time and I couldn’t say anything especially due to the politics. But I can tell you now that she should’ve never been around children.” The disappointment must’ve been written all over my face when she saw how perplexed I was. She said, “Is there something I can try to clear up for you?” I stood there for a moment not knowing what to say but burning with questions. “Yes ma’am. I do have a question…..So you all knew she was abusive and shouldn’t have been around children and you let her teach anyway?!” “I was her verbal punching bag and her abuse has affected my education, my career, my relationship with my wife and children, my relationships with others and above all the relationship and image of how I view myself as a human being!” I was mad but I couldn’t stop then tears. She hugged me as we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

When I went to my own vehicle and unlocked the doors, I sat down and shook my head and said, “They knew the whole time and didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t they know how badly it all hurt? Did they even care? Yes, I fought every way possible to make it through that year in school that still shows its ugly scarring. No matter what adult I tried to tell that year I got no help from the abuse. And “snitching” never did me any favors. Had someone look past the labels and protected me from the backlash of telling the truth about the abuse my life could and maybe even would be much different now. That one year of school affected a few other teenagers in ways that are still damaging to them. The most visible are the scars that line the forearms of those teens with 30 years of thick scarring from the one thing that would listen to us all then…..razors. I also had the experience of eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia), alcoholism, drug addiction that were all there with their arms wide open to help shield me from the unwanted torture of abuse.

The “Code of Silence” protected by perpetrators in a way that I had no defense. And as a very young bride, I would face abuse again for the next 14 years. That “Code of Silence” that was used as an intimidation factor all those years worked. It kept me silent and the perpetrators innocent. I go to bed scared every night and the first emotion I have in the morning is fear. This shame based silence that seen as normal or acceptable is very hurtful. Maybe protecting offenders because of “snitching” isn’t the problem. And maybe listening and helping to protect children and teens when they tell should be handled first instead of politics and reputations.

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.

Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

–Elie Wiesel

#thispuzzledlife

June 18, 2019 darnold1975

“Bruised Inside”

“You’re gonna have to go through hell, worse than any nightmare you’ve ever dreamed.But when it’s over, I know you’ll be the one standing. You know what you have to do. Do it!”

—Coach Duke, Creed

In my blog I repeat several different views about the abuse I went through. It might be from a different angle but repeating will inevitably happen. If this is a problem then read elsewhere because this blog is about MY healing and when I’m struggling or laughing about something worth sharing, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

This is a great therapeutic tool that I developed out of necessity several years ago. At that time, it seemed to be just what I needed that listened and was non-judgmental to whatever problem I would write about. Whatever the issue was, I wanted and searched for my answers to some of my strange behavior at times. I was simply searching for where the “old Dana” went and who in the heck was this “new Dana” in many different pieces that is trying to emerge?

The one part of life that I’m very strong in is protective instincts. This means protecting those I love even if the protection is from me. I can’t say that I love someone and then when the situation calls for this protection I not be willing to do just that. I’ve ended a relationship recently for this very reason and it has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.

Looking for answers as I’ve always done, I went to the library to see what I can find about a topic that has been bothering me “Bullying at school by teachers.” Most books on this topic usually lead to bullying from other students. But this day, I found a book that would seemingly have some much needed answers and validation that has been lacking. The book is titled, “Teen Torment by Patricia Evans.”

I opened the book to a random page with the title…..

In this passage I found this….”In a culture that overlooks verbal abuse, teens who are tormented by it face difficulties accomplishing developmental tasks such as independence, identity, and career goals. When teachers put them down or rage at them these students lose the confidence to become independent. And one of the long-term consequences of verbal abuse is that it disconnects teens from their emotional self.” Essentially, what happens is that the teen learns how to feel nothing in order to withstand the abuse. “The teen then can’t figure out who they really are versus who they’re told they are. Consequently, they look for their identity outside of themselves making up an image that seems more acceptable since they’ve already been told many times that who they are is not adequate as a human being. They might develop an appearance so that no one really knows what has happened to them as a safety measure. They will go to any lengths to maintain this image which to them seems safe. Instead they end up losing their own interests and talents because all of their thoughts about who they thought they were have been told time and time again that they’re wrong.”

Indicators of Verbal Abuse

Show a noticeable change in behavior
Become isolated and withdrawn
Pull away and refuse to talk
Seem depressed
Cry easily or often
Not have close friends
Have bad dreams
Complain about going to school
Cut classes at school
Refuse to go to school
Throw up before school
Seem to daydream a lot
Have trouble concentrating
Get much lower grade than usual
Seem to have lost enthusiasm for anything
Become self-critical
Hurt themselves, cut themselves, eating disorders and pull their hair
Act aggressively towards siblings, peers or parents
Get angry often
Lash out at others
Get in many fights (Teen Torment, 2003).

When I was abused by this teacher everything that I was being taught, by my parents, about respect of another human being was confusing to say the least. She told me so many negative things about myself as a human being and through negative body image that I was almost guaranteed to sprout the eating disorders anorexia and bulimia that I still struggle with daily after 30 years. I’m tormented by her words and actions daily. I can hear them as clearly as the day she said them. And as sad as it seems, I hold onto my eating disorders and other self-harming behaviors with a death grip because somewhere along the way they were the only part of my life that seemed safe and something I can control. But this “control” is a false control just like addiction to a chemical. It’s also behaviors that pretend to be your friend until you realize that that “safe friend” has taken everything away mainly your sanity. Self-harming behaviors of any kind have negative social implications which have made me a prisoner of my bedroom. Most people don’t want to hear excuses for why you don’t want to eat. They just see it as a disrespectful gesture and will think twice before inviting you again. And God forbid if they happen to see your scars from cutting. They think they’re hanging out with a psychotic monster that has the possibility to lunge at them with a razor blade at the dinner table. My thoughts have always been, “If you only knew what caused these scars to appear, you’d think before judging next time.”

When I finished reading only about 10 pages of information I laid my book down in my lap and began sobbing. Finally, I had found some information that spoke for me what I couldn’t. I saw on those pages validation for that horrible year of abuse with information about what it did to me. I was called all the names and was told that I was stupid and fat among other things that children should never have directed at them by anyone much less from a “safe person” in a position of authority. That year affected me in ways that I still can’t fully understand. This book and it’s passages tend to make me retract from some of the information because of how close to home it all is.

As a teenager, I had much difficulty with emotion regulation. I’m torment by her words and actions of that year. Her negative body image comments have me fearing everything related to the topic. I can still feel the bullets of her malignant words she shot my way directly into my still developing brain. And to her I can say this, “You don’t matter and you never did. I’m succeeding despite what you did.” And for you I have a surprise. What if it’s simply calling you and confronting you about what was done? This kind of discussion needs to be in public where we both feel safe and can speak openly. It could be that simple. Would you listen and deny any wrong doing? Either way a surprise there will be because every day I wake up I’m bruised inside and you are the only one who can heal that wound. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise?! Maybe that’s the surprise I’m waiting to hear and hold on to. Maybe the surprise is something different. Only I know.

Every single day I choose to work on some type of behavior or action that most people take for granted. As much as I would like to re-gift this “gift” of surviving apparently it was meant for me. And I’ll carry this burden with the hopes that my own children don’t have to taste this type of life and that monsters are just pretend instead of real as I and many others know them. Carrying the trauma of the boys that molested me, my teacher, my ex-husband and his brother, a trusted therapist will end with me. I will either win or die trying because when it comes down to it it’s all about leaving everything you’ve got physically and mentally in the ring, on the field or on the court. Whatever happens my wife and boys will know that I gave everything I had until I couldn’t. I wasn’t coached to give up until I had left it all on the field and could feel proud of my efforts whenever that day comes.

Rocky Balboa talking to Adonis Creed before his first fight….

You’ve never been in front of this many people….that don’t matter.

You’ve never been this far away from home….that doesn’t matter either.

What matters is what you leave in the ring

And what you take back with you is……PRIDE.

And knowing that you did your best and you did it for yourself.

You didn’t do it for me; Not for your friend’s memory but for you.

I can see in your eyes you’re going to do it…..Go Do This Champ!

#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, 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, 2019August 10, 2019 darnold1975

Life Is Better When You’re Laughing

“I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.”

—Woody Allen

The above title is the writing on the outside of my private journal. Understand comedy however you wish but for me it has gotten me through a lot of situations both good and bad. I have always prided myself on the fact that regardless of what events have taken place in my life, my ability to laugh and find humor in most situations was never damaged. Often times humor was used against me as a form of humiliation and embarrassment.

As a child, I’m not sure if I was humorous or not. However, with my dad’s quick wit and grandmother’s lack of a filter, in any capacity, there was always a reason to laugh. In my teen years, clowning around became second nature and a form of survival. I became a class clown that followed me into adulthood. In most treatment centers and psychiatric units you can most assuredly find me as the guilty party wherever roars of laughter might be exhibited. This is not because I like attention. I do, however, love laughing with like minded individuals. Things I Have Learned on Psychiatric Units is another blog where some of this very humor was captured.

I am usually telling stories related to my late grandmother’s antics especially when birds, squirrels, her individualized driving abilities or lack thereof and Wal-Mart scooters are the topics. She never could quite understand the fact that birds and squirrels have co-existed for thousands of years together. She also never realized that both birds and squirrels can survive on food even if you don’t personally feed them every day. There were many days when you would catch her screaming at the squirrels in a murderous rage about staying out of the bird feeder because they had their own food (corn cobs) placed securely onto a tree. After throwing random objects from her house such as knives, spoons, cooking pots, a tea pot and house slippers at said bird feeder and using language that would make even the most liberal of southern Baptist blush she would then proceed threatening them with verbalized thoughts of a mass squirrel genocide. Even after her death some of those same house slippers were found buried beneath leaves of the once violent anti-squirrel tyrant. The blog post Birds and Squirrels also reiterates some of these same scenarios played out by one of my greatest friends….my Nannie.

Her driving consisted of her ignoring street signs, mainly speed limit signs, because they were viewed as a suggestion rather than law. My family and I started driving her around soon after we all realized that safety behind the wheel was not her goal or a priority. When I would take her to Wal-Mart my 80 year-old grandmother used the same lack of driving skills on the scooters. There were times when I would look up with her driving solo to the women’s clothing section right up into a clothes rack. She then proceeded to tell me the scooter was broken and that’s why the incident has occurred. Never once did she acknowledge operator error. She would somehow cuss her way into leaving the area on the “broken” scooter only to leave a trail of blouses that had been ripped off the rack. She would also drive down to another section of the store with additional clothing and hangers swirling around and grinding in the tires. I’m sure Wal-Mart wrote these damaged items off because they most assuredly could not be sold after my Nannie had done her damage.

The ability to laugh at our own shortcomings allows us to not take life so seriously. Laughter helps to reduce pain, strengthens immune function and decreases stress. Whenever I feel some type of major depressive episode coming on I’ll usually find a movie or a standup performance by one of my favorite comedians/actors to help chase it away. Granted this doesn’t always work but laughter has been some of the best medicine for me. Some of my favorite comedians are: Kevin Hart, Katt Williams, Dane Cook, Tyler Perry, Rickey Smiley, Jim Gaffigan, Aries Spears, Gabriel Iglesias, Will Ferrell, Jim Carey, Dana Carvey, Margaret Cho, Amy Schumer, Ellen Degeneres, Tig Notaro, Melissa McCarthy, Mo’nique, Whoopi Goldberg, Wanda Sykes, Cedric the Entertainer, Jeff Dunham, Mike Epps, Russell Peters, Darren Knight (Southern Momma) and the late Robin Williams, Chris Farley, Bernie Mac, John Candy and Ralphie May.

While my ex-husband could be comical, he used his humor in a very demeaning way against me. And in public or around family is when he would let these skills reverberate with only me having the knowledge that this was not done in fun. I picked up on those comedic verbal sniper attacks very well. Also, since tears and real emotions were not considered “safe”, humor whether appropriate or inappropriate was always acceptable. To this day, I’ll deflect most emotions other than anger or humor because it just doesn’t feel safe even with safe people. Luckily, my “coach” already knows this and gets my attention when deflection seems to be my goal instead of feeling uncomfortable feelings.

Learning how deal with feelings through laughter is ok. However, using humor as a way to avoid feelings can be detrimental and deadly if taken to extremes. Re-learning how to deal with feelings appropriately is not an easy task. But I will still take time out with telemarketers to let them know that I have to end the call because I have a cow on fire in the front yard. Again, another part of life where I must learn and accept the importance of moderation and balance.

#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, 2019August 10, 2019 darnold1975

What Is The Primal Wound?

What is the Primal Wound?

“…Being separated from their birth mothers and handed over to strangers in the adoption process is the only trauma where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful…”

Nancy Verrier, The Primal Wound

Even as a young child my parents can tell you that I was a very inquisitive. I was also the child that questioned EVERYTHING. There was no accepting because someone said to. I had to know the “whys.” This has often led to difficult roads and battle wounds as a result. As an adult with a very difficult diagnosis to comprehend much less to ask someone else to understand, I still question everything. Maybe it’s normal to question these things. Keep in mind that I function most of the time as a “teenager with an attitude” and you know how much ego, time and energy that requires. Sometimes it’s just like having annoying bags of hell that can suck the life out of everything it touches including my body attached to me like appendages. But sometimes the internal conversations are better than any comedy routine I’ve ever witnessed including the questions.

I question every person’s motives, practitioners, governments, my adoption, abusive behaviors and, yes, I still question my diagnosis A LOT! Being on disability, currently, allows me time to search for answers about my puzzled life. As you’ve read throughout my blog, my connection to adoption and why it’s so painful for me has led me to some obsessive days and nights searching online for something to explain the pain in my soul that I’ve never been able to accurately paint a picture of with words.

On an Attachment and Parenting blog, one adoptive parent is quoted as saying….

“Scientific research now reveals that as early as the second trimester, the human fetus is capable of auditory processing and in fact, is capable of processing rejection in utero. In addition to the rejection and abandonment felt by the newborn adoptee or any age adoptee for that matter, it must be recognized that the far greater trauma often times occurs in the way in which the mind and body system of the newborn is incapable of processing the loss of the biological figure. Far beyond any cognitive awareness, this experience is stored deep within the cells of the body, routinely leading to states of anxiety and depression for the adopted child later in life.”

I now have a simple explanation for the type of feelings that can destroy me to deal with. The rejection and separation process can still be felt deeper than any other sensation I’ve personally felt. These words gave me an instant reaction and all internal members on guard and children/teens to safety. I realize that the intensity felt by other adoptees is on a continuum of variance. The intensity I feel today is the same intensity I felt as a infant, child and teen. And as an adult, it can still be very crippling as the loss is for both me and my birth mom is extremely powerful.

In Nancy Verrier’s book The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child, 1993, she describes the Primal Wound Theory by saying, ” that develops when a mother and child are separated by adoption shortly after childbirth. It describes the mother and child as having a vital connected relationship which is physical, psychological and physiological, and examines the effects of disrupting such bonds.” I still haven’t been able to read that book because of how much the topic really disturbs me. The Nature vs. Nurture debate is another avenue in continuous research. I see myself both sides of the debate which as people we are a constantly evolving through that very mixture.

As an adopted child, I needed and wanted to find parts of my identity. I was always the kid that looked nothing like my parents but I did have some behavioral traits. I was raised around some comedy goodness with both my daddy and Nannie. Their individual humor is enough to sit and tell stories for several hours. My environmental and social interactions helped to shape beliefs both about myself and other people. There’s a much longer discussion for that debate. Genetically, my skin color, facial characteristics, bone structure, eye color, etc. is the Nature side of the debate. The debate often centers around the effect genetics have on human personalities as opposed to the influences that environment and development might have. So you can see that this will probably on for infiniti + infiniti.

As a developing child, not being able to look in the stands at my ballgames or in a crowd at the mall and not see anyone that I looked like was torture. I love my adoptive parents no less. Unless you’re an adopted child with this strong need to just know “why” you can’t understand the obsession. At major life events birthdays, weddings, graduations, birth of a child, etc. while I tried to enjoy everything in the moment, I couldn’t help but to feel the loss for people who I originally belonged to. This has also been a big source of guilt and shame from just wanting to know.

My parents were always very supportive in my efforts to find my answers and truth about this situation. My birth mom, father, full brother, aunts, uncles, paternal grandmother, half brothers, half sisters, step-mom and some cousins eventually met but not on the same turf. As an adopted child, I had to accept prior to going to meet them all that I would be rejected again. This time the rejection would be felt as an adult. I needed that one-on-one time with my mom to ask her the “whys” that continue to haunt me after my answers were received. But, first, the willingness to feel that incredible lifelong wound gaped open even further if the universe saw fit and it did. Not the Lifetime ending I was looking for.

What I have done to deal with this wound in the past was to shove anything I could into that big, dark hole in my soul. I poured alcohol, pills, razors, purging, restricting, perfectionism in certain areas, people pleasing, etc. into this insatiable appetite for something only she could fill. I guess we can just call this particular therapy topic a work in progress. And maybe, in time, with COACH by my side, I’ll attain some resolve and peace. The whole purpose for moving to Texas was to get some healing. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

#thispuzzledlife

June 11, 2019June 11, 2019 darnold1975

Locked And Loaded

Locked and Loaded

“I finally understood what could drive kids to show up with guns and shoot up their schools.”
― Nenia Campbell, Freaky Freshman

If you want to look at all sides of the historical and current school shootings then don’t forget this side. Put yourself in the driver’s seat as a teenager who feels that there is no way out. There are no easy answers. Don’t think as an adult about how you would respond? You have to imagine the world through the eyes of a desperate teenager who feels helpless just like those who killed. I’m not condoning anything. Just don’t eliminate one of the sides of the problem or you’ll never achieve an accurate answer.

Imagine for a minute this scenario…..

Life as a 13 year-old rebellious but funny teen seemed to be pretty benign on the surface. Teenagers because of the developmental stage tend to be difficult stressors for kids and their parents. She had this incredible gift to make people laugh no matter the situation. Depression crept in and slowly started transforming her. Her vitality for life was very slowly disappearing and it never seemed to matter or to care to those she tried to reach out to. She had no animosity towards anyone. She hated that she had been unwanted. But everyone loved her because she was everyone’s favorite clown and friend.

What no one seemed to take notice of was that this clown was put into a closet behind the teacher’s desk and locked. The teacher always had hurtful things to say. She poked at this child like a pit bull chained to a tree and being taunted and whipped with sticks. Anytime that child spoke up she was hit again. Anytime she cried she was ridiculed and humiliated. When she talked about food she was glared at and venomous derogatory body image comments were slung at her. Every time she tried to fight back she got in even deeper trouble with the administration. No one ever listened because of a label. She wasn’t a bad kid. But now she didn’t know.

All she wanted was for someone to leave her alone and apologize for what had just happened over several months. Relief was nowhere in sight. She began thinking that if she (the teacher) wasn’t alive to torment her that she could hang with her friends and continue playing ball. But if she committed suicide she wouldn’t have to ever face another minute of this daily torture. She can’t speak of it all as the embarrassment of what she thinks she has allowed. And then her friend commits suicide and the seriousness and pain of what had just happened was brushed over like his life didn’t matter. She is rocked to her foundation.

I have lost my emotions

— Dylan Klebold

I hope death is like a dream state, I want to spend all my time there.

— Eric Harris

These two thunderclouds collide along with a mixture of other storms in her life. This marriage, of sorts, bred the perfect storm. Her inadequacies were put before her peers. She was taunted daily about how no one wanted her. Everything that she would never become. Statements about being a baby for crying when the words stung like bullets. She tried to tell and no one would listen. Or it was the southern way to handle this parenting situation..”She is the adult and you are the child. Tell her you’re sorry and give her respect!” She was literally and figuratively trapped and no one could hear her silent screams.

How could you not notice the fact that she cried blood tears from her forearms? How could you not notice the holes in the hallway and rooms? How could you not notice that she had deadly eating disorders that would almost take her life? How could you not notice the pain meds and all the sleeping and headaches that became part of daily life?

Now imagine for a minute that you were that child trapped with no help. You just wanted it to stop in whatever way possible. Leaving school wasn’t an option. How do you as a child attempt to rationalize a very impulsive yet very thought out plan to make it end? How do school shooters develop? There’s a very condensed scenario. Often times parents do not know what to look for. Wearing a mask is too easy to hide behind because no one really wants to know how we’re doing. “Fine.” seems to be the best generic answer that is acceptable on a daily basis.

You said that you didn’t see the “typical” warning signs. There is absolutely nothing “typical” about a teenager. They are independent and impulsive beings with their own fingerprints. It sounds more like you were blinded by your ignorance and politics to notice that this was happening right in front of you. You were the adults meant to protect these children and you turned the other way. Now you don’t like how they turned out. Five minutes of listening to a child full of tears that you never saw behind those screens of smiles and laughter could’ve saved lives…maybe your own.

“–What if the kids from Columbine were here today. What would you say to them?

–I wouldn’t say anything, I would listen to them, which nobody else did.”

Quote from Marilyn Manson in the documentary Bowling for Columbine.

#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 11, 2019January 19, 2020 darnold1975

For The Bible Tells Me So Part 2

For the Bible Tells Me So…..Part 2

“If a believer demands that I, as a nonbeliever, observe his taboos in

the public domain, he is not asking for my respect, but for my submission.”

― Flemming Rose

Let me start this entry by saying that I am in no way putting in “jabs” to any particular religious belief or sect. I’m simply stating how religion can be used in an abusive nature. I have my own personal experience with Southern Baptist and Southern Evangelicals. I don’t dislike either one. Abuse has also been publicized within the Catholic religion. But let’s face it, abuse of any kind knows no boundaries and/or limits.

In the many years that I longed for and searched for my birth mom I heard the same story over and over about how she was put in touch with a pastor in the Petal/Hattiesburg, MS area and then like a bad explosion I was born. When I got older I had to be able to understand what all this meant. So the only way I could fully comprehend this was to call it “The Underground Railroad for Unwed Mothers.” To tell a few more of the details surrounding her prenatal arrangements and my eventual birth, my birth mom was from Indiana at the time. She was 16 years old and had gotten mad at my biological father and fled to put me up for adoption as soon as possible. This information I received when we met face-to-face.

As I stated in the first part of this blog entry being an unwed mother was not exactly as socially acceptable as it is now. We are not talking about 50 years ago either. In the 1970s was when my birth mom had me. In the 1990s when I graduated high school teen moms were still regarded as “less than” no matter the circumstances. These “less than” opinions were not only from the standpoint of the church where I personally saw people treated differently depending on socioeconomic, gender, race, sexual orientation and just about any other category where someone might “stand out” as being not “normal.”

Nevertheless my birth mom was actually suppose to go to the Bethesda Home for Unwed Mothers when she was pregnant with me. However, she was too far along in her pregnancy to be accepted there. This was the best outcome for me as the baby for her to not be allowed there regardless of the reasoning. For her, though, she has made it clear many times over that I was “an inconvenience in her life then and now.” Tell me even reading that you didn’t feel that punch to the gut. Now imagine that you’re that baby that grew up wanting nothing more than to find part of your identity and you’ve been forced to wait to find this woman that you inherently have longed for your entire life because of state laws. All the while hoping that your opinion of what “adoption” means to you is different. Only to be rejected again but now you feel that very deadly blow. I could do absolutely nothing. I could say nothing. Me being left speechless seldom ever happens.

To this day, when I am still and think back to that moment I have to change the subject because it’s just too painful to remember. To make matters worse, when I returned from finding the answers I needed my husband at the time told me “she’s a filthy and disgusting woman and she gave YOU up for adoption.” I can’t describe what that did to me emotionally. Every feeling and thought that I had up to that point about my self-worth came down to that one comment. I have never recovered from things like that that were said to me daily.

When she was turned down at the girl’s home she stayed with another local pastor and his wife until she had me and like clockwork she left never to think about me again until the phone call from my biological brother telling her that I had been found about 30 years later. She has had an incredibly difficult life. She and my biological father passed along some strong addiction genes and well…..not much else. The “Nature vs. Nurture” debaters would love to study this one. I was going to mention something about good looks but roasting myself has become somewhat of an art.

The point in all of this is that religion can be incredibly shaming to those that aren’t stereotypical worshippers. This means going to church or whatever your place to worship and acting a certain way or being vocal. Now, personally, I don’t care how anyone worships or who they worship because I consider this a very private matter between you and your higher power whomever or whatever that might be. Here’s a quote from an author on this very thing…

“Evangelicalism has taken the Extrovert Ideal to its logical extreme, McHugh is telling us. If you don’t love Jesus out loud, then it must not be real love. It’s not enough to forge your own spiritual connection to the divine; it must be displayed publicly. Is it any wonder that introverts like Pastor McHugh start to question their own hearts?”
― Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking

Pastor Marvin Winans is a gospel singer a member of the Winans Family a famous gospel group. He also leads the choir called the Perfecting Church Choir. He also has produced several albums with this choir while also being a part of “Tyler Perry’s House of Payne.” Winans also delivered the eulogy at Whitney Houston’s funeral in 2012. The comment from an elder in the church about his policy regarding baby dedication for unwed mothers and their children was this…..

“Pastor Winans has a strict policy — he won’t bless the babies of unwed mothers in front of the congregation”, Fox 2 Detroit reported.

Grace said “she felt degraded by the pastor’s decision. She’s hoping he reconsiders, even if it means having her son dedicated during the week by a church elder.”

Until then, she told Fox 2 Detroit “she has no plans to return to Perfecting Church.”

“I absolutely would not set foot back in the church right now because I feel like they look down upon me and my kind, meaning single moms and unwed mothers,” Grace said.

Pope Francis recently said in May that the Catholic Church should bless children born out of wedlock, because their mothers chose life over abortion.

“’Look at this girl who had had the courage to carry her pregnancy to term. … “What does she find? A closed door,” he said, according to Vatican newspaper L’Osservatore Romano. “This is not good pastoral zeal, it distances people from the Lord and does not open doors (http://archive.eurweb.com, 2013).”

What about those of us that can’t attend comfortably because of trauma either by clergy abuse, PTSD, social phobias, etc? Well, let’s just say that I’m open about many facets of my life regardless of ostracizing. Loud music which is usually the status quo in most churches sends chills all over my body. Not because of the words but because sensory overload and hyper startle reflex that will have me cringing and crying if I can’t get out of the situation. If I’m still unable to leave violence is my “go to when niceness doesn’t work. I’m openly gay and legally married with children, addictions, mental illness, phobias, PTSD, eating disorders and medical cannabis. Do I need to keep going?

I’m that baby that was refused dedication to the church because I was born to an unwed mother (figuratively of course). My point is this…..the church has lost sight of its mission if Christianity is your thing. I have my beliefs and questions just like most that keep that information in the dark. I don’t believe for a minute that the only relationship you can have with God or your chosen deity has to be within a church. Nor does it make you “less than” because you don’t chose to worship like others.

I’m currently surrounded by people who are loving Christians who understand mental illness and its roots. They don’t shame me into going to church with them it’s a choice that I make. And if I start having an issue I simply leave the service and it’s no big deal. Many churches have a room removed from the service area or provide ear plugs for this and many other reasons and conditions. God just knew that when the mold broke that I would be quirky but that I would SURVIVE and thus far that’s exactly what I’ve done.

#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, 2019August 10, 2019 darnold1975

It’s Not About The Food

“Girls developed eating disorders when our culture developed a standard of

beauty that they couldn’t obtain by being healthy. When unnatural thinness

became attractive, girls did unnatural things to be thin.”

–Mary Pipher

One of the things that I’ve learned the most about my many maladaptive behaviors is that the perfect storm had arrived to ensure me having eating disorders when I was a very impressionable teenager. Not only was it teenagers having issues with body image. It was also the abuse that occurred during that time and the things that were said and my impression about what had occurred and what was done. As a part of the abusive teacher’s very hateful nature was the being humiliated about myself as a human being in front of my peers. I was put on display a lot of the time and made to stand in front of the class while being made fun of without having any type of recourse. If I ever said anything back I was punished by both she and the administration who clearly had no idea to what extent her abusive nature was. She on more than one occasion, would tell me when the rodents would get into my food in my locker “It doesn’t look like you need food anyway.”

I was made to weigh for him sometimes weekly because “I’m not going to be married to a fat ass” he would always say. He would also tell me that “it’s ok to have fat friends but you don’t have to look like them.” He micromanaged my food to the extent that that I was only allowed to eat what he approved of and nothing else. To make sure this happened he would allow me only 10 pistachios and 10 olives to eat while at work working two jobs. He would also, on occasion, sit out in the parking lot to make sure I didn’t eat anything that was not what he allowed. When I would tell him that I was hungry his supportive line was “No pain no gain.”

He would also leave random newspaper clippings around the house about the latest weight loss diets and/or make me take pictures of myself in swimsuits or naked, put them on the refrigerator and tell me “next time your fat ass gets hungry look at this picture and maybe you won’t want to eat.” He would also make comments if we went out to eat about how all the people were looking at me because I was a fat ass. He would say, “If you don’t like them staring at you then don’t be a fat ass.” If we had dinner with his family he would wait until we left to criticize either what I ate or how I ate. And many times these comments were said where other people could hear them. He would also say, “Did you have to eat that much of whatever we had for dinner? You eat like a prisoner who’s about to have their tray stolen! And that is why I have to tell you how, when and where to eat. Because you’re too dumb to do it on your own. You’ve already proven that time and time again.” Eating quickly became the most dreaded activity I had to deal with on a daily basis. My goal was to try to get through life with him and eating as little as possible. As you can imagine I didn’t do that to his standards either.

The message that was conveyed to me was that no matter what I did it would never be to his irrational standards. I was also expected to be at the gym to workout mornings at 5:00 am. Being a well known guy in the city he knows many people and that included the employees at the gym. So, he would call to verify be being there and what types of workouts I was doing. If I ran 4 miles he would want to know what I didn’t “gut it out” and run 5 miles.

Years of his verbal abuse, threats, and sexual abuse slowly broke me down. People who don’t understand why individuals stay in relationships like this often say, “Well he only did what you let him do” cannot possibly comprehend what this does to your psyche. Those types of hurtful comments are why most suffer in silence and don’t ask for help. After all, sometimes it was the easiest and safest thing to do by just going along with whatever his demands no matter what they were. He had me convinced that I was nothing without him. He and his brother tormented me for years and continue to do so internally. But again they were both raised by a father who was also a malignant narcissist and a mother who worked at home without an education until much later in life. So really she had nowhere to go with three children and no education. So for many men and women in these types of relationships that don’t leave usually have a damn good reason for staying. There’s always more to the story behind those closed doors than what you realize. My own parents had no idea the extent of the abuse that I was having to deal with on a daily basis. Such is a life with a malignant narcissist.

To this day, if someone tries to take a verbal jab at me while in a public place or group setting my “verbal sniper” becomes activated and a one-sided war will ensue. Get me in that little conservative and very judgmental city and I “turn into a werewolf” as my wife puts it. I have found that striking the first blow is a way that I can set the tone that I will NOT be hurt by whoever it is that I feel is a personal threat either imagined or real. All I have to do is see this as a possible threat. Anyone that I perceive as a authority figure, I absolutely will not make eye contact with if at all possible.

I guess the message I’ve tried to convey is that eating disorders and other maladaptive behaviors are about something much deeper than society sees them. You see the signs and symptoms and I feel the weight of the trauma every minute of every day. To this day I will chose not to eat because the internal war about what to eat is just too painful. When I do eat I can never be full and satisfied because full means fat to me. If I do feel full I have to purge with laxatives to get rid of that feeling. It’s not a binging thing it’s an eating thing. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…..IT’S NOT ABOUT THE FOOD.

Understand this as well….I’m done trying to live my life carrying my trauma and the trauma those two boys in adult bodies. I will NOT continue to be a part of the cycle of not working on my own trauma just to have mine and theirs to be spewed out onto other innocent and unsuspecting people. This is a work in progress no doubt but the cycle dies with me. I’ve proven that I can live through it. Now it’s time to prove I can live without it. All I need was to find a coach to help with this and I did.

“I failed eating, failed drinking, failed not cutting myself into shreds. Failed friendship. Failed sisterhood and daughterhood. Failed mirrors and scales and phone calls. Good thing I’m stable. ”
― Laurie Halse Anderson, Wintergirls

#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 9, 2019 darnold1975

Shattered (Poetry)

Shattered

Life began being ripped away,

how that felt I can’t begin to say.

With no voice I lie and wait

Someone? Are you there? Touch is what I crave.

As a little girl touch was what I got.

I didn’t understand. It was painful and hot.

Teen years rolled around and I was locked away.

All I did was cry and pray.

I wanted to disappear in every way.

Everything has a price that must be paid.

She hated food and she hated life.

You did everything possible to make her your wife

You always promised you’d never hit her.

But oh those words were so strong and very bitter.

You cut her down and again she was little.

Take her fears and insecurities and made her very brittle.

She refused to leave and would not go.

All she was to you was a legal ho.

To substances she turned to dull her pain

Given the chance she’d do it again.

Many losses and now a new wife.

With two little boys and a new life.

The old life hangs on and the fears are great.

Everything about life she has learned to hate.

Friends and family she’s lost most but not all.

She’s somehow trapped again by four walls.

If they all knew what all it takes to live every day.

Forget the fact that she loves weed or that she’s gay.

Because of you A shattered psyche and a shell is all that is left.

She gets up every day wondering is this the day she will taste death?

By: Dana Landrum-Arnold

#Thispuzzledlife

June 8, 2019June 8, 2019 darnold1975

Inside The Rage

Inside the Rage

November 15, 2016

“Rage — whether in reaction to social injustice, or to our leaders’ insanity, or to those who threaten or harm us — is a powerful energy that, with diligent practice, can be transformed into fierce compassion.”
― Bonnie Myotai Treace

Explicit and detailed rage scene!

I peer through the widow making sure I’m at the correct house. I spot her sitting in her living room with that same scowl on her face from 27 years earlier. The memories of her hatred flood back with the force of Hurricane Katrina and almost paralyzing. This is the moment at which she would experience the same fear, humiliation, belittling and taunting that I once received from her. I have prepared for this moment my whole life. “Be strong, Dana. It’s now our turn” I tell myself. I knock on the door knowing that I would be recognized immediately. She opens the door. And before she can say anything I rush the door pushing her off balance back into her house and onto the floor. I pull my 9mm out and point it at her saying, “What you thought I forgot?! Now it’s time to even the score. Please I invite you to take a trip down memory lane with me. You might’ve forgotten what was said and done but I never did. And I never will.” I quickly tie her hands behind her with rope and lock the doors. I make her sit in a chair where she’s tied and threaten to be killed if she says anything without being asked. I tell her, “So this is what it’s like being one up on somebody. No wonder you like that so much.” With the “deer in the headlights” look on her face and tears welling up in her eyes I say, “Oh is the baby going to cry now? Bitch suck it up! I had to and I was a child!!!!”

I start pacing with adrenaline and anger at a level that I’ve never felt before. I feel certain that I’ll probably have a heart attack at any moment. But I don’t care. I tell her, “Think to yourself why are you and I back in this position?” Her breathing has become rapid and erratic. Tears are now flowing down her cheeks and she’s shaking with fear. “Hey you little bastard! I asked you a question!” I said as I threw something across the room breaking it against the opposing wall. She starts trying to talk but it sounds mostly like babble. “Shut that hole in your face and talk normal you little idiot! Is it all coming back to you now? Where is everybody to save you? Come on! Say something or do something so I can send your little unwanted ass to the office again. Hell, no wonder no one wanted you. I wouldn’t have wanted you either. You’re just a little piece of trash that no one will ever want” and with that I slapped her as hard as I could across the cheek. A whimper and a whence she continues to cry but now sobbing. “Suck it up, fish sticks! We’re just getting started.” I chuckled and say, “Look on the bright side….at least this won’t be every day for a year in a secluded storage closet.” “I didn’t do anything wrong!” she says. “Wrong answer, dumbass!” and I slam into her throat with my forearm knocking both she and the chair over with a thud. “IT AIN’T FUN WHEN THE RABBIT GOT THE GUN, IS IT?!!!!” She slowly shakes her head and starts sobbing louder. “You know what? I don’t give a fuck what you have to say right now!” I tell her. I rip a piece of duct tape off and put it over her mouth. “You should see how pathetic you look. You could dish it out to a kid but you can’t take it? This time I have a smile on my face and YOU have the tears. How does it feel now that the roles are reversed? Who gave you the right or idea that it was in any way ok for the way you treated children? You fucking disgust me!” As I look into her eyes, I can tell that she is experiencing the depth of fear that I did. The feeling I got was something of validation.

I slowly walk behind her and whisper in her ear….”No Child Left Behind” and “Teachers touch lives for a lifetime.” I ask her, “Do those statements mean anything to you? Because they mean everything to me. Remember when I fell through the cracks and had to endure your abuse by myself? Remember how you would embarrass me in front of my peers with your hatred? Do you remember any of the things I said to you being said to me? And I find out through the years that you’ve said similar things to other children? So why are you so surprised that I’m back? The guilt of not having found a way to stop you so no one else got hurt is why I’m back, bitch.” All she can do is look at me knowing well what I’m talking about but not knowing what I’m fully capable of doing. “You altered the course of my life forever with your abusive hatred! You took my fears and insecurities and used them as a weapon by making them public through humiliation! Your words and actions have left me unable to deal with life and on disability now. I got me degrees to prove you wrong but you still managed to raise your ugly head and cripple me this many years later. I survived you and your abuse. Will you survive mine?” I turn around facing the wall instead of her and I felt a small tear streams down my face. I turned around. I pointed the gun at her and hearing her muffled screams I say to her, “They say the root of all evil is money. But it’s not. The root of all evil is the abuse of power. You don’t matter to anyone. You never did.” As I’m starting to pull the trigger I’m startled by a loud noise. What I soon realize is that the loud noise was the ice maker in the refrigerator here at home. And I’ve been sitting in my recliner for a couple of hours looking at a chair on the other side of the room.

A flood of nausea from a now raging and might I say, angry, migraine is now plaguing me physically. I quickly try to figure out the current situation, time and place. My heart is pounding and adrenaline is rapidly flowing through me veins. I grab my pipe with my medical cannabis needing some ‘hurry up’ relief. I’m already having to play catch up with this migraine. My legs feel like they have been set on fire. And I’m doing my best to hold down lunch. I feel like something is trying to crawl out of me and run. From deep within I hear and feel the panic of “Let me out! Get away from me! Let me out! Get away from me!” This calls for a dab of wax. But not before I realize that the belt is wrapped around my arm as a tourniquet in the familiar preparation for cutting. I just lay back and let it happen. She needs relief and so do I. Several minutes go by and I slowly begin to reorient to my surroundings again with a neatly bandaged arm. I’m weak and exhausted but I now feel now, as though, I might not die. I look around the room and see that it resembles somewhat of a ditch house for drug addicts or the homeless. Things are broken that I have no memory of doing yet I was alone all day. I quietly begin to sob by myself partially out of fear. But also out of relief that this time no one was home but me. And I say once again to my internal guys, “Thank you for keeping me safe yet again.”

“I finally understood what could drive kids to show up with guns and shoot up their schools.”
― Nenia Campbell, Freaky Freshman

#Thispuzzledlife

June 6, 2019June 6, 2019 darnold1975

“I Believe You….”

4.12.15

“I Believe You. It’s Not Your Fault.”

—-Anonymous

Ok, so just maybe the quote isn’t one from a famous philosopher, actor, psychologist, theorist or author. Technically, anyone could say those two sentences. After thinking about some of the words for the past couple of weeks, I have come to the following conclusion. We’ve all heard the saying that something can, “make or break someone.” Well, here’s a rather stunning example of just that. In the therapeutic world these two sentences can, in fact, ‘make or break’ a trauma survivor.

There was someone that I was working with recently that I asked, “Do you believe me?” This had been a question that had been gnawing at my insides for a long time that I never voiced until then. The response was, “It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s about helping you deal with the feelings.” Now, why is this significant? Firstly, I would like to point out that I do not believe in any way that this was said maliciously. However, something within my internal ‘system’ just wouldn’t let it rest. I instantly my anger grew by the second. The anger was not creeping but sprinting straight from my gut to my brain at a speed that I was, unfortunately, extremely familiar. All I wanted to do was get out of where I was and get as far away as I could. At the same time, I was very confused at how very angry I was becoming over seemingly something so insignificant. I just wanted to get out of the situation. I felt as though there was about to be collateral damage.

Later, once I’ve had time to allow the physical feelings to subside and for my brain to return to the typical crazy norm, I search inside for answers. What could’ve possibly triggered me so badly? I didn’t know but….it didn’t feel good. My body had exploded with tension in all of my 2000 parts. And the only way, I can describe what my brain felt like was like an earthquake had shaken everything into disarray. Once again, I sit and listen to the ranting and raving of some of the ‘insiders.’ I just try to remain a by standard and listen.

I also can’t help but to feel a very overwhelming sense of fear that has me partially paralyzed. I’m trying to sort through everything while trying to maintain and it’s not working. Me and the medical marijuana become rather close friends for the rest of the day. My mind and body was screaming for relief. I talked some to my wife but kept a lot inside to try and sort out on my own. What had just happened?!

I was looking for a great big ‘a-ha’ or ‘bright light’ moment and it came down to something this simple, yet, very important. Perpetrators are master manipulators in every way possible. The two most significant things I was always told was that, “No one would ever believe me and somehow it was MY fault.” While I was not outright told that I wasn’t believed, I was also told that it didn’t matter. I was beyond crushed. Alters in my system went ballistic. There were ‘internal’ tears, anger, screaming, raging, blaming, hurt and pain that was resulting in a chaotic mess. Each day, I find out more and more ‘triggers’ that can lead to a reaction. It looks like we found another one.

One of the advantages of being a trauma survivor is hyper awareness of surroundings. Advantages how? I notice everything that is going on around me down to minute details. That’s how, in some instances, I was able to stay ahead of my perpetrators and stay safe. Also having a degree in a behavioral science helps understand behavior as well. Therapeutic relationships of any kind especially with someone in power can only thrive if there is trust that has developed. Once that is gone so is the relationship. What if you were someone’s one and only contact and they came straight out of a lifetime of trauma and abuse to someone who doesn’t believe that it matters whether or not we as trauma survivors place a high importance on being believed about what has happened to us? For this brief moment in time, my abusers seemed to be correct, we didn’t seem to be believed. Does it scare you? It did me.

#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, 2019May 30, 2019 darnold1975

Wake Me Up When September Ends

Wake Me Up When September Ends…..

11.5.14

“The conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma.”
― Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery

I’ve always been told the saying, ‘when it rains it pours.’ Right now, my life feels like a hundred year flood. And for those who read this blog, yes, I did manage to make it through Halloween. It wasn’t easy and I was medicated, but I wasn’t going to miss our son’s trick or treating for anything no matter how painful it was for me.

You may or may not view this as a “pity party” session and well that’s on you. I view this as being able to freely voice my agony which tends to be very cathartic. I’d like to think that this string of painful losses was just for the month of September. There are several events that seemed to congregate in that month. The psychological trauma began many years ago so, I’m not a ‘newbie’ to bad shit happening. Matter of fact, I can usually handle that much better than “normal” life. Why? For many years, that has been my normal.

This year has been one, thus far, that I’ll never forget. The spring brought two suicides. The summer brought the most intense internal and external psychological battle that I think has ever been waged against me. September…..well….it doesn’t have a season because what started then hasn’t stopped even now. There is nothing that could’ve prepared me for when my brother’s wreck that happened and yet he still survived and is doing very well. Less than a week later another suicide that I was directly associated with occurred. Another suicide only a couple of weeks ago happened yet again. And now some concerning news that I must just chew on for the moment.

Have I learned some difficult lessons this summer? You bet I have! September just seems to keep feeding me and my family all kinds of stuff that just makes you shake your head. And it’s not over yet. In the meantime, I start deep work on my molestation as a child very soon. Sometimes you wonder what your limits are and then voices from the past namely Nick Kolinsky and Randy King among other coaches remind me that “A Winner Never Gives Up!” We were never allowed as players to give a half ass effort. So, even now, with tears streaming down my face, what was instilled in me as a ballplayer keeps me going. You just enjoy the good times and prepare for the bad. Things have happened so quickly that life hasn’t afforded me time to catch my breath.

And now I get ready to embark on a deeper more painful part of the journey of trauma recovery that I have yet to experience. I have asked many questions about why I have to pay both mentally and physically for the evil that was done by others. The only solace I can find, at this juncture, is so that I can finally have my voice heard. Oh, there have been people that have said along the years that they were listening to me. Actually hearing what I have to say from a humanistic standpoint, I’ve been stranded. I must admit that some of that is my fault because I kept so many secrets and protected my abusers both out of fear and intimidation.

Dear Perpetrators

Those days of fear and intimidation are gone. I survived without your help. People are now going to hear what you did to me. I was once your victim. Now, I’m the warrior about to face you again and again for as long as it takes for me to have freedom.

Sincerely,

YOUR worst nightmare

Our Thanksgiving plans consist of going to Arkansas to spend with my brother and sister-in-law and our new ‘chosen’ family. He is then riding back with us to Albuquerque to spend a month with us. Does the universe know that I’m going to need some extra support in the coming months? I would have to say undeniably YES! Big things are going to happen in the next couple of months that are going to be both good and bad. I see nothing wrong with two people wanting to promote healing together. Sometimes all I need is my big brother as comfort. And sometimes all he needs is his equally crazy sister to tell him that things will get better. Nothing but good can come from this. I will not only have my dear son and wife here as comfort. But, my big brother is going to be here to push me in a way that no other person on this earth can do. We also have over 20 years of jokes and laughter to catch up on. So, my dear brother, thank you in advance for the comfort and support that only you can give in the next couple of months.

What people don’t understand about mine and Levi’s relationship is that just being around each other for less than an hour, we already begin healing. So, having a man that I’ve always trusted when I was always told that he was “bad news” is something that I can still laugh about today. He saved my life many years ago and I can only hope to repay the debt one day. The boys/men that I was told I could trust raped and molested me physically and emotionally.

Since, my only sibling has been AWOL since I ‘came out’ as being gay, she made a choice and I made mine. I have two brothers named Levi Pierce and Chris Pierce that I can depend on no matter what. My sibling’s name, unfortunately, has slowly been forgotten. I have a beautiful family and extended family with absolutely no blood relations, no matter what her choices are.

Levi and Chris Pierce and all of our ‘chosen’ family in Arkansas, thank you for loving me and my family unconditionally. Charlene Pierce, thank you for loving my brother and being patient enough to be his wife. LOL. Levi, thank you for staying off the damn motorcycles for this long! I love you and can’t wait to see you soon!

#Thispuzzledlife

May 30, 2019May 30, 2019 darnold1975

Fight, Flight or Freeze

August 6, 2014

“People who fly into a rage always make a bad landing.”

—Will Rogers

After a good “wake n’ bake” morning, and a nice phone call from my brother Levi Pierce, I think he and I realize that we’re more alike than different in a lot of ways. That’s actually more of a scary thing than funny. He and I have discussed since we reunited about whether or not the “karma bus” is plowing us over for being such smartasses when we were younger. I haven’t stopped being a smartass and neither has he. So, I’m guessing that the “karma bus” is following ever so closely behind us waiting to stomp the gas pedal…LMAO!

I have to admit that we are very “hot-headed” individuals that would give you the shirts off our backs. We are both very loyal people which would explain the closeness of our relationship even after not being in contact for 20+ years. However, I will warn you of two things……(1) Don’t ask either of us a question unless you know and accept that you will receive our honest “opinion” and, more than likely, a smartass answer to go with it. (2)And don’t expect either one of us to sit by and watch injustices being done especially to our closest friends and family.

When a perceived threat or an actual threat for one’s safety occurs there will be one of three responses: fight, flight or freeze. I will speak for myself on this one, when I say that when my trauma was occurring, I was a fighter. Anger seemed to be the only emotion that people would respond in a way that felt “safe.” For me, the safety was that people would back away from me and leave me alone. This soon became a very useful tool for me for a means of survival. Tears have always been considered a weakness for me. My tears were always used as a way to belittle me or lead to further abuse. Anger became my greatest motivator. But then anger progressed into rage….

I would go into blind rages where I would have no recollection of the events. Actually, the level at which my anger and rage can get, scares me. I have no idea where this rage comes from. I do know where it began….age 13. I was forced to hold all emotions because I couldn’t win no matter what I did. Columbine had not happened yet and I’m glad the seed wasn’t planted. Because, you had two teen age kids who were mad at the world and were tired of being bullied by adults. Instead of Klebold and Harris, it would’ve been Kendrick and Pierce. We had also realized that other teachers and staff knew how we were being treated and did nothing about it. We had no ‘ill will’ towards any other students, just the adults. I felt as though I had no voice. I would complain about how mean she was and no one ever heard what I was saying. I already had the first of many “labels” I would have throughout my life. I was labeled as a ‘troublemaker’ and ‘behavior problem.’ Once the label was in place, there was no wiping it off even when they were the ones in the wrong. I vowed from that day forward that “no one that I knew would ever have to fight on their own as long as I was around.”

At the point in my life when this was occurring, I remember having my first thoughts of both suicide and homicide. I became very intrigued with death. Like I said before, horror movies always provided relief from all of the rage that was building inside me. The movies provided for me what I wasn’t able to do…”a release for the rage on my perpetrators.” Finally, in my own fantasy world, they were getting what they deserved. The drugs, cutting and alcohol were all just to make living tolerable. Was it maladaptive? Well, of course. All I knew, was that adults were unsafe to me then. Because, all I saw was the abuse of power that was coming from them. So, being raised that “adults were always right” was very confusing .

These thoughts have continued since then. I’m constantly trying to keep the “rage” maintained. My approach doesn’t work all the time. Therapy has helped me to feel that rage on a different level. Now, I’m at least at times able to feel the anguish, fear and sadness behind all of the rage. However, I can still have a hard time crying even with people I trust. Where parents aren’t given a guidebook on “How to Raise a Child,” neither are children given a book on “The Healthiest Ways to Survive Trauma.” So, on both sides of the scenarios, individuals are often given only split seconds to make a decision. Sometimes the decisions turn out to be good and some bad. But, whatever decision you make about the situation, if it works for someone then that person will continue to use those same behaviors as a viable option. If it doesn’t work for you, then you look for solutions until something does work.

There are definite commonalities among children and adults in responses to trauma. However, each reaction will be individual to the person. Up to the point at which the trauma occurs, no one has the same experiences. So, trauma affects people differently. Some experiences even could and can appear to have almost no impact on one person. But, then causes major life disrupting behaviors for others.

#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

A Little More Travel

8.20.14

“Punishments include such things as flashbacks, flooding of unbearable emotions, painful body memories, flooding of memories in which the survivor perpetrated against others, self-harm, and suicide attempts.”
― Alison Miller, Healing the Unimaginable: Treating Ritual Abuse and Mind Control

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 was said and done. But, 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. 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 left field 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 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, at the time 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 in talking or other things. I now know what he told me was a lie.

#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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