This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“A 3 year-old is basically a walking, talking middle finger.”
-Amy Dillion
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. I needed to switch gears just a bit from the trauma work. So, what is something that’s lighthearted and comical about our lives? The answer…PARENTING. It doesn’t matter if you’re straight, gay, trans, purple, white, black or any other category. If you have children they will all do things like this as they grow.
It is the most complex job that I’ve ever had. There are as many frustrations as there are hysterical moments. We as parents love our children dearly. There are also those times especially toddler meltdowns that can have me in the room over in a corner while in the fetal position and biting my arm. A momma hamster would’ve eaten said screaming child.
Due to my trauma, I cannot tolerate the cries of babies and children. Asking them to stop is apparently the equivalent of asking them to stop breathing. Needless to say, I am so thankful that the boys are out of those stages. However, the uncharted waters of puberty are now upon me. They still aren’t always sure what bothers them but they just hiss at everything. And all I can say at this point is that “if God wants to get me back for the way I was as a teenager, it’s going to be a hell of a ride.” Here is a video of some of the funniest kids meltdowns.
Any parent from anywhere in a public setting understands the familiar cries. That moment when you think to yourself, “Yep, it’s nap time for that kid.” When Marshall was little and Mel and I went to Walmart, we headed straight to the dog beds where we would get a comfy looking one and put it in the cart. We would give Marshall his bottle and pray for a miracle. It might not have lasted forever but it was so nice. And then inevitably a loud sound or the screeching of a kid’s tantrum would wake him up. How many times did I want to go up to a parent and say, “I hope you can’t find your kids binkies the next time they want one. And when you try to go to the store to get new ones they are all sold out. And then it’s “No Binkie Night” at your house!” Check out some of these funny pictures of children losing their minds over the simplest things.
Marshall was very young and we were getting ready for church. On the way to the car he spotted his little swimming pool and made a beeline to it. I stopped him just shy of soaking his entire outfit and shoes. You would’ve thought that I had just removed all the air from his life. We had to go through the five stages of grief and loss. And the crocodile tears made me feel like a horrible parent because I just made the additional liquid in his eyes appear. We all made it through that moment and Marshall just turned 13. And now I’m beginning to see, at 49 years old, that my parents were not crazy when I was younger. I made them that way.
I hope that you could have a few laughs as I have. Enjoy the ride of parenting. Our little guys are so worth it all. And so are all of you!
“The average toddler expends 6,500 calories per day. Consumes 1.5 bites of food per meal, and grows 3 pajama sizes per night.”
“To become authentic we require a thirst for freedom.”
-Don Mateo Sol
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. I love the smell of burning sage. Mentally it somehow provides a bubble that no one’s negativity can penetrate. Even if only for a moment.
I have been shamed by many entities, friends and family for being a lesbian. I have two superhero children that came out of that relationship with their other mom. And my children have also had that held against them as well. Was that selfish of us to bring children into the world knowing that? No. I believe that God saw that we had two children that were absolutely perfect for the situation. We brought those children into the world loving them and wanting to be parents. We have always told them that families look differently with race and gender differences. And is in no way right or wrong. It just is. I’ve also been asked, “Well, what if they come out as bisexual, gay or heaven forbid in a relationship with another race?” My response has always been, “Then what a great and very diverse family they will have to be a part of.” I have told my boys from the beginning, “I will never hold against you who you love. If you can find someone who truly loves you for who you are and respects you, go for it! I will have a problem if they are abusive buttholes.”
I lost my sanity trying to be what others told me that I should be. And being a part of the LGBTQ+ community oftentimes we are “forced” to make a family outside of our families of origin. Not as a choice but as a necessity. Me and my children have always been seen as less than. We have not been included or have been treated as “sloppy seconds” because of who I loved. And how they were conceived because personal beliefs on the topic.
I have watched people through the presidential election and the horrible crimes of P. Diddy destroy relationships. One thing I’ve learned is that I’m not going to agree with you and you will not agree with me. So, what’s the point of arguing just for the sake of arguing? However, what I have made abundantly clear is that if you see something done that’s illegal or wrong and don’t speak out, then you’re just as guilty. I have learned some very difficult lessons about being scared into silence. My life has been largely influenced by narcissists. And the only title that fits perfectly is “emotional vampires” and “masters of deception.” The narcissist that I was enslaved by always called himself “a local celebrity.” To put it very bluntly, these kind of people are very scary. And cause colossal damage to their victims.
It doesn’t matter if you’re from a small town, politician or celebrity. Wrong is wrong. I can spot a narcissist a mile away. And there is no place in a society that harbors these type of criminals that often operate in the shadows. Just because you don’t see them in this role, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen. They are more concerned with their image than your well-being. If you’re operating openly then I have even less respect for those individuals. That just tells me that you’re even more dangerous. The commonality between narcissists is the fact that their egos are much bigger and stands out from others. They feel that they are untouchable. And they also believe that money, popularity, fame and scare tactics keep them safe from others that oppose their stance. They are the “god” of their own universe. I have also had family members that are narcissists. Most don’t change because they don’t see themselves as doing anything wrong. The ones that do change only do so because of “scared straight” tactics. And the only thing you can do is keep your emotional distance.
The abuse, for me, only got worse when the doors were closed. If this doesn’t fit your opinions, then take what you can use and leave the rest. It’s the beauty of living in a “free society.” I speak only MY truth. And pain changes people. I’m not here to coddle anyone’s delicate feelings.
When I was a child, a teacher was allowed to unmercifully abuse me. Yes “ALLOWED!” I spoke with school administrators 20+ years later only to be told that they knew the abuse was going on but they couldn’t do anything about it. Let that sink in for a minute. They knew that a child was being abused and did nothing about it. I fought adults on my own. Not one adult stepped forward and said, “This is wrong! She’s a child and you’re committing crimes!” GUITY! GUILTY! GUILTY!
Granted the science about childhood trauma and its effects on adulthood functionality was in its infancy at the time. Unfortunately, I am only one of millions of adult children who now know the harsh realities of just how deeply abuse can effect someone. In this day and age, ignorance can no longer be used as an excuse. Science is everywhere. And so is the research and studied outcomes of how negatively shaming affects a person’s entire being.
I don’t try and paint life and this world as a beautiful oasis where nothing goes wrong. I don’t tell my kids many specifics about my trauma history. But make no mistake they know who “the mean man” is. And they know about that mean teacher that locked me in a closet. They also know, see and experience what it’s like to watch their mom struggle from the consequences of abuse. And also what can happen to another person when we don’t find a way to heal our own wounds. And if that makes me a bad parent because they are prepared for the difficulties of life, then so be it. I used to have a real complex about having a mental illness that is trauma induced. But then I realized that what I saw when I looked the eyes of my children was that I was raising advocates.
As a parent, my job is to protect my children as much as I possibly can. That does not mean smothering them with my own personal beliefs. We are to teach them how to think. Not what to think. Teach them how to make educated decisions. And sometimes allowing them that freedom is very difficult knowing that there is a great potential for growing pains. We learn through our mistakes or we don’t.
I allow my children to make their own decisions within reason. I tell them, “Here are your choices. Whatever your decision is comes with either positive or negative consequences. Make your decision.” When they come to Camp Frat Pad I tell them both, “If you want to stay up all night that’s fine. But, if you’re a butthole tomorrow you will get in trouble.” Both boys go to bed at a decent hour most of the time. I also allow them to have the freedom to dress and cut or not cut their hair anyway they want. All in an effort to assert their individuality.
That’s a dream that I wished I had been allowed to live. My individuality always seemed to have some type of constraints. I’m not the kind of person that conforms to social “norms.” I am very ok with who I am. And the more you try to force your hand and make me conform, the more I rebel. I will also not be a part of sitting idly by and watching my children be treated differently because they come from a minority family. How can I expect them to stand up for other individuals’s differences if I don’t stand up for them? I have watched many people claim that they’re one way. Then tuck tail and run when it comes to the statement that is not popular among others in their peer group. I’ve watched that many times. And those people will not admit to any wrong doing. They just want only you to change. I don’t need to change that part of me. I have no problem being gay.
I will not ever silence MY truth because of someone else’s uncomfortability ever again. My children are watching me to see if I am who I say I am. And that I am. Nothing more, nothing less. And I make absolutely no apologies for being authentic. Because I can’t be nobody but me!
“If you want to know where to find your contribution to the world, look at your wounds. When you learn how to heal them, teach others.”
“To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make everybody else-means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting; and never stop fighting. Stay true to yourself, yet always be open to learning.” -E.E. Cummings, A Poet’s Advice to Students
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away! Ok that feels much better. This is a blog that I’ve been wanting to write for some time. For the last couple of months, I have been in a depression that has been absolutely debilitating. Maybe it’s been due to the stress of recent surgeries. Or maybe it’s been a combination of that and coming off all of my psych meds. Yes, you heard that correctly. I am now off of my meds and the mood swing has snapped! Run! Right or wrong. I took myself off in a rather drastic way. When I get an idea in my head that I’m going to do something, write it down. It will get done. Now I don’t advise coming off psych meds all at once. However, I wanted it done immediately. So, I put myself through absolute hell. I was so sick physically that coming off heroin would’ve been easier. Nevertheless, It’s finally over. And things mentally and physically have come alive again. And I do mean everything.
I remember looking at myself in a mirror saying, “Well hey you! Where have you been?” I don’t have any problems with the idea of antidepressants or any other type of psychiatric meds. For me, though, I was tired of taking them and constantly having to worry about copays to community mental health providers that I truly didn’t have the extra money to afford. I have also been on the state’s cannabis program for a couple of years with the goal of one day coming off those other meds. I’m just too impatient to go through the slow process of convincing professionals to continue tapering. And being that I’m a “street pharmacist”, I just decided to do it myself. I still struggle with severe insomnia that has somewhat plateaued at the moment. My cannabis spreadsheet is finally complete! Which means that I now tailor my “green meds” to what I need. Instead of also having to factor in traditional meds and their side effects. This might not work for everyone. So, do you boo-boo.
What this has also done is find the backbone that I knew I once had. Antidepressants make you much more tolerant of criticisms and everyday frustrations. Now I just smoke a bowl or do a few dabs and it does the same thing instantly. One thing that I’m constantly having to adjust is medication for pain management. That, in itself, has been quite the adjustment.
Doctors, no matter the issues, are just not willing to help with pain management enough to help keep people comfortable. I didn’t say keep them high or addicted. With “Big Pharma”, though, that’s how they line their pockets.
While living in New Mexico and Texas, my lack of pain management led me straight back to the streets. And that always leads to either jails, rehabs or the grave. There’s just too much Fentanyl out there for my comfort level. I can honestly say that being on the cannabis program previously and now that my addiction issues have not reared their ugly heads in this area of my life. Trust me, when addiction wants to take me, I go seemingly very willingly. In other areas of my life I am still in the grasp of addiction. Regardless, life continues to be brutal. And parenting doesn’t get easier either. It just has new challenges.
In therapy, everything ebbs and flows. Sometimes it’s easier than others. And sometimes you seem to plateau. Recently, I have had my most painful trauma hit me at my weakest point. I was literally awake for five days and crazy as hell. I know what a fabulous time to abandon medication and its requirements. I have always taken the difficult road in life that this time was no different. Dangerous? Probably. To me, doing things safely just takes way too long. And I’m not willing to wait.
I have always been a people pleaser. I have done what others wanted regardless of what I wanted to do. I felt that I have always needed to somehow strive for perfection that could never be attained. I’ve always tried to be for others, losing the vision for who and what I’ve wanted and needed to be. I’ve attempted to be straight knowing full well that I’m not. I have dressed in ways others wanted me to. Acted in ways expected of me. I kept my hair cut in ways to only pacify others. And I lost myself in the process.
I won’t ever say that “coming out” has been an easy process. It’s very different for every person. It’s probably the most difficult process I’ve ever had to go through. And more painful than you can imagine. Think about this for a second. If you wake up in the morning as someone who is sexually “heterosexual”, imagine what you would do if someone told you, “No, you must be gay.” You can try and do your best to be gay. You might even speak the lingo. But in your heart, you have always been straight. You just can’t be gay no matter what you are told or what you are shamed for. So, one day you just stand up and say, “I don’t care what gender you think that I should be with. I’m not nor have I ever been gay!” Imagine how freeing that would feel, for once in your life, to be who you know that you are. If you can’t comprehend a scenario like this then be glad you can’t.
It’s kind of like individuals who don’t understand why the LGBTQ+ community has gay pride celebrations. How many times have I heard the comments like, “Well we(straight) don’t have “straight pride” celebrations.” The Stonewall Riots were not about having “Straight Pride.” They were about the freedom of being a member of the LGBT community without the fear of being arrested. The idea of “straight pride” is ignorant. And you will look stupid trying to argue that point. So don’t get jealous every year when June rolls around and all of the rainbows, glitter, unicorns and individual pride colors come out and the LGBTQ+ communities are beautiful and flamboyant. Be glad that you don’t have a reason to celebrate “Straight Pride.”
I “came out” in my 30’s as gay. This has presented many problems including lost relationships, shunning by family members and loss of jobs. The list goes on and on. And so do the whispers and backbiting. As scared as I was to make that step forward, I did it! And I have NEVER regretted my decision a day since. I finally stood up and proclaimed who I am! People will call you all kinds of names. It’s the ones you answer to that counts!
“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.” -Brene Brown
“Having children is like living in a frat house – nobody sleeps, everything’s broken, and there’s a lot of throwing up.”
-Ray Romano
Light charcoal. Sprinkle the Sage. Negative energy go away! This next post will hopefully help you understand a little bit better about the relationship between the boys, me and our friends.
At the frat pad, me, the boys and whoever else wants to stop by for a visit are more than welcome. The “Frat Pad” is where we can all check out from reality by having fun and growing in our relationships. The adults can be kids if they want. We do so many cool things like nature walks, silly string war, gel blaster gun wars, water guns, slip n’ slide daytime and nighttime, campfire, roast marshmallow, fireworks, forts, bridges, playing in the creek, farting, nerf gun wars, burping, bathroom humor, swimming, movie nights, homemade ice cream and meals with friends, water gun wars, feeding and observing the wildlife.
We also have serious discussions about life. Currently, one of the biggest sources of entertainment is the topic of puberty. Another main attraction is that we feed a little snack on the porch to the local wildlife. And we enjoy watching every minute of it from inside in the ”safe zone” area in the house.
Good friends, good family and lots of fun is what “Camp Frat Pad” is all about. I let kids be kids and do what some aren’t allowed to do such as Staying up all night Which they never make it to sunlight o’ clock. And sometimes they eat ice cream and leftover cold pizza for breakfast. Of course, there’s always “Tink” and “Coco” who enjoy being the supervisory onlookers. And subsequently getting some much-needed attention from their crazy friends and brothers.
The times when they come for a visit, and I mean the very minute they enter my house. It’s Instantly transformed into a college frat house party. We talk, swim and do many other things. The boys’ main goal is to eat as much as their bodies can tolerate. And to play until they collapse. The goal is to let them and teach them to love and to appreciate being children.
They begin eating like starving feral dogs. There is a lot of bathroom humor. Copeland loves to be out in the woods with his beloved rubber boots. Before I bought him the boots, He would accidentally on purpose get his shoes wet playing by the creek.
Me: One day I was frustrated and said, “this house looks like a fraternity house!
Copeland asks “mom, what’s that?”
Me: “I tell them both, “when you go to college most places have houses where they drink a lot of alcohol and do some “whack-a-do things. They are called fraternity houses. Where only guys live. The times where I’ve gone to parties are loud and the houses are completely trashed. By the time you go back home my house looks like a comfortable place for squatters.
Copeland: “Cool momma! Can we have our own fraternity house?”
Me: “Of course. What would you like to name our fraternity house?”
Copeland: “I don’t know. I need your assistance coming up with a name.”
Me: “Well, how about if we try to come up with a name that has “Frat” in it?”
Copeland: “Ok. But Momma, what is another name for a house?”
Me: “A Pad.”
Copeland: “So it’s a frat pad?”
Me: “What if we called it “Camp Frat Pad?”
Copeland: “Perfect! Yay, I love Camp Frat Pad!”
Me: “Ok. At fraternity houses you must be accepted into the club before you can live there.”
Copeland: “How about at the frat pad anyone can be accepted if they need friends or if they want to place with toys, Xbox, and have snacks. The exception is not really sleeping here because we don’t have much room. If they’re adults that can sit by the fire and talk with you, Mrs. Robyn and Ms. Shelby?“
Me: “That’s a great idea, son! But what about in the summertime when it’s hot?”
Copeland: “They can come swimming with us. And then when we go back home you can get some pizza. And the adults can stay inside and talk where it’s air conditioned. DUH!!!!”
Me: “And if we don’t’ go back swimming that evening what would yall like to do?”
Copeland: “That’s simple. Make some homemade ice cream and we can play outside until its ready.”
Me: “What would yall play at night?”
Copeland: “We could play either Slip N’ Slide. Or a water gun war. Or a game that you can teach us. Mom, trust me we can find something to do. But we will be hungry again. Playing makes you hungry, you know.”
Me: “What do you think a good motto would be?”
Copeland: “A what?”
Me: “A motto.”
Copland: “What is that?”
Me: “It’s like a statement that makes up what Camp Frat Pad is all about.”
Copeland: “hmmmm…. I’m thinking.”
Me: “Think about what I allow you to do within boundaries.”
Copeland: “Something like when it rained a lot and you let me walk around in my boots and playing in the water?”
Me: “Exactly!” I knew what was about to say.
Copeland: “How about ‘Where everyone can be their self and have fun!”
Me: Copeland that is perfect!
So that, my friends, is what makes Camp Frat Pad so special! With the hustle and bustle of life and school sometimes you just need to take time out to enjoy and reignite the simple pleasures of life. There is nothing like sitting with your friends, roasting marshmallows, building bridges in the creek and hearing about how rude your older brother’s puberty is affecting little brother.
Thank you so much for reading this blog! Start from the beginning and experience the peaks and valleys with us.
“Some frat houses have a story. We have a legend.”
“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
“When you’re just like everybody else, you’ve nothing
to offer other than your conformity.”
—Wayne Dyer
Lately, I’ve been adding some poetry that I had saved on my phone. What I’ve learned about having relationships with my internal guys is how to listen to them. If I get a wild hair and need to either write a blog or poetry it usually means that someone is needing to be heard. Write it down and then ask questions later has been my motto lately. What I’ve realized is that chaos and confusion are minimized and open, honest and direct communication has been encouraged. Trust me….this is one big process of learning how to build and maintain relationships with “head mates” that have seen a lot of the evils of mankind. I would like to thank Hobby Lobby and Michael’s Crafts for allowing me to buy supplies from them in order to do projects that enhance the building of a better relationship with my alters. Ok….now I’m being silly.
I usually start getting silly when I become uncomfortable in some way. And well, “Coach of the Year” has assigned me to write about what I have to offer as a person. I don’t always like the “assignments” but I love the lessons and answers I get from them. To put it all into perspective, growing pains are called “growing pains” because growth doesn’t always feel good. Likewise, growth as an athlete requires constant practice and learning the ins and outs of playing the game.
One of the greatest lessons about playing ball that I remember was when we were learning how to run bases. Stay with me because this part can get confusing. You don’t wait until you’re all the way down the baseline to the base to look at your coaches for direction about what to do. You ALWAYS keep your eyes on your coaches. Half way down the baseline to 1st base you start looking at your first base coach. If he or she thinks that you can take another base they will point in that direction. Half way to 2nd base you begin looking for your 3rd base coach for direction on either to stay or go while also listening to your 1st base coach from behind you about whether or not to slide. If your 3rd base coach signals to take 3rd base he or she will also be rounding you to home or telling you to “get down” to beat the throw at the base. If you start rounding 3rd base and head to home plate, you look to your teammates on whether or not to slide. So, from the time the ball hits the bat you look for direction and trust that your coaches are making the best decision for both you and the team. Either way, you’re not alone…ever. You’re simply being directed until you’re back to the safety of home plate. They direct you but they don’t nor can they bat for you individually or as a team. The work has to come from you.
Artist: Celeste Roberge
It’s the same way for me in therapy. I’m always looking to coach for guidance. I don’t want anyone to do my work for me. I hunger for her guidance and fear the unknown. But I also trust her and know that decisions will be made in my best interest. And from having been mistreated by a therapist previously, being able to trust her to not hurt me or to not have ulterior motives is really kind of a big deal. It has take now a solid 17 months to try to work through a lot of the fears surrounding the therapeutic process. I haven’t conquered them all but when I moved here I hadn’t conquered any. Getting hurt in therapy by a therapist has caused more issues then what I was prepared to deal with. I had no idea how hurt I was but Texas has a way of revealing all kinds of things. Yep….a modern day “Mr. Miyagi” she certainly is.
All of this ties into the original topic “What I have to offer?” It’s embarrassing for me to discuss this kind of topic. After years of being told by different people that I wasn’t good enough as a human being and the fact that I’m a total non-conformist, it’s really difficult to say, much less believe, that I have anything to offer this world. I totally stick out like a sore thumb with the problems that often arise in public (tics, switching, emotional outbursts, aggression, etc) regardless if I can’t control them falling short in society’s definition of “normal” is not easy.
Having limitations like this certainly makes life incredibly more challenging. The eyes that you view the world with after abuse seem to be put into place without knowledge that it’s happened. The confidence that I worked so hard to gather and maintain as a child was completely dismissed and destroyed through the hatefulness of others. The compassion that helped to build my confidence as a child didn’t seem to be able to shine through the darkness. Slowly, I began to lose my spunk for life and likewise pieces of myself. I could no longer offer those qualities in myself that I lived with daily that made me proud to be a part of the human race. I no longer saw people that I welcomed around me as a precious commodity. I now saw them as potentially harmful, shady and very scary. I kept my jovial demeanor that everyone loved until the hurt I was hiding became the new clothing for my soul. And my big heart that had always been one of my greatest assets had gone into hiding in order to also protect itself. I looked up one day and had no idea who was looking back at me from my reflection in the mirror. My arms were severely scarred. Eating had become a necessary evil. And my dreams and goals for what I had worked so hard to achieve had disappeared like grains of sand that slipped through my hands never to be seen the same way again.
I had become emotionally feral through my own survival. I seemed to have changed right before the eyes that had supported me for so many years. And now, I had become not only someone I didn’t recognize but also someone that other people who loved and respected me didn’t recognize. I simply had morphed from an individual that people loved into someone that people feared. It was heartbreaking to know that this emotional freight train was going through destroying everything in my path and I was powerless to stop it. Mel and I searched for answers daily for years in hopes of finding anything to help explain why I had become this aggressive monster that even she feared. She fell in love with Dana who loved and cherished her unconditionally. And almost overnight the Dana that she knew was gone only to be replaced by an aggressive, disrespectful, scary, immature and seemingly much younger version of herself that Mel didn’t recognize or understand. And frankly, I had no explanation for anything regardless of the evidence that would be presented to me.
We moved to Albuquerque and for me it was something that I had hoped that a geographic change would help to remedy. It didn’t. Once we got there free from the oppression of the deep south, we sought out counseling knowing that I had problems. We had no idea how deep those problems ran but soon we would. I could offer nothing to anyone. I felt I was being drained of my “goodness” and all the positive attributes that made me the compassionate and loving person that I had always been. All I felt was hurt. And all I seemed to be able to offer was more hurt. So, my only solution to stopping the hemorrhaging was to end relationships and to isolate myself, as much as possible, from society. That way no one would have to suffer pain through my own doing anymore.
Again we would come in contact with another hurtful human being in the form of a therapist. The only thing good that came out of the 2.5 years that I saw her was the correct diagnosis. Other than that she was incredibly damaging for me therapeutically and emotionally. I soon wanted nothing to do with professionals and became even more aggressive to make sure that no one wanted to help treat me. The truth was that I wanted so desperately for someone to help me. I, however, was so scared of having another hurtful professional that the fear paralyzed me and sabotaged any type of help that might’ve been offered. My new motto was: “No one would ever hurt me again professional or not. And I would do everything in my power to make sure that happened.” True to my word I became a patient in facilities that people hated to deal with. I gave a whole new meaning to the term “non-compliance.” I trusted no one and hated everyone. But my fearless and loving wife still searched for answers while trying to raise our two little boys despite me often times being in a condition where I couldn’t even get out of bed to take care of my basic hygiene needs. And yes, there were times that she had to bathe me because I just wasn’t able to at the time. That, my friends, is a example of love.
She would find a facility in Texas that she thought I needed to try. For two years, she pleaded for me to go and I wouldn’t. I eventually showed up and set the aggressive tone early just to prove that I could hurt and scare people just like they had done to me. I finally met the therapist that would work with me while I was there. I was determined to run her off too. What I didn’t count on was that she would be able to see past the anger into the pain hidden behind the spewing and venomous rage. I tried to end the caring and compassionate look in her eyes and couldn’t despite my greatest efforts. This peaked my interest but the fear of her position as a therapist took over. I knew that I had finally met my match.
Within 1.5 years of this experience I moved to Texas as a last ditch effort of trying to save myself from an assured death. I didn’t come here believing that things would change and get better. I came here because a rare find showed me compassion despite my self-destructive path. So again….what do I have to offer? For me, I’m still in the process of finding out what those gifts have the potential to be. My sense of humor continues to be one of my strongest and best qualities. I have an education that allows me to speak to people about the damaging power of abuse. I have the emotional knowledge to be able to reach teenagers and to know the struggles of living life feeling emotionally trapped. I have the knowledge and firsthand experience of seeing how compassion and love can topple the effects of abuse by soothing the pain and hurt. I know and can feel what it’s like to be loved by someone who will sacrifice everything to make sure you’re safe because they want so desperately to help find the one they fell in love with. I know what it’s like to make sacrifices as a parent to protect two little precious beings that still call me mom. I know what it’s like to still be coachable after being a washed up “has been” athlete from 20+ years ago. I have the experience and know how to continue to pick myself up and keep going when I’ve pushed myself way past my limits in order to survive. I know what it’s like and fully understand the fear of letting someone in to help when allowing someone to do that caused so much hurt and pain. I know the feeling of not being heard. I know the agony of silent screams and the language of pain that can take on so many different forms. And I have the Experience, Strength and Hope of someone who’s been fighting a war my entire life without being in the military and not ever having to leave my homeland.
One thing that Sarah taught me many years ago was this, she said, “Dana, you have the capacity and ability to do great things. But you can’t give away what you don’t have. Recovery is what you need and what will make great things possible.” So, I say this to you now…recovery is a marathon not a sprint. You don’t ever reach the finish line of being “recovered.” I still struggle emotionally on a daily basis and I still don’t yet have all of the answers I want. I am, however, slowly receiving the answers I need. Healing wounds is not easy nor is it comfortable. And unfortunately, it’s also not instant. It took me 43 years to become this damaged and dysfunctional and to think that it can all be changed overnight is unrealistic. One thing I never allow life to come between is me and my therapy. I have my heart set on once again being a functional part of my family and to help my one and only soul mate raise our two little boys that we fought so hard to have. And today I can say that the parts of my destructive self, no matter how slowly, have begun to be silenced.
“Mentors don’t just have to be people
who are older or more experienced that you are.
Mentors are people who really care about you, know you,
and want to offer feedback and advice to help you grow.”
“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.
“There are certain life lessons that you can only learn in the struggle.”
― Idowu Koyenikan, Wealth for All: Living a Life of Success at the Edge of Your Ability
I have been asked more than once since writing these blog posts how I decide what to write? The truth is that I don’t always know. Sometimes it can be a topic that has embedded itself in my gut. It can be a topic that I continually search for answers and/or the meaning in my life. But, I often times will begin writing without any type of direction. Maybe it’s even some type of struggle where writing is my way of asking the universe for a lesson to be taught. And my thoughts have always been to sit back and wait for my answers to be revealed. Whatever the “reason” or “lesson” my intent is to be open and receptive no matter how difficult.
I have always been one that has taken the hard road out of necessity. Mel will be one of the first to tell anyone who asks that “Dana has to see something for herself before she will make a decision. You can tell her all day long the easiest way to go but until she sees things for herself she won’t budge.” This is not a fact that I deny. Maybe the hard truth is the only way I learn. If you wait for me to read between the lines, I will most assuredly leave you frustrated. Being incredibly hard headed and coming in 2nd place only to my Nannie, has never really made the “easy way” a workable option either. I must have questions answered and the questions about the questions answered. I might still reach the same conclusion but it will have taken me twice as long.
As a young child and then a mouthy teenager if I was told not to do something you can write it down that within hours or minutes I would be doing the very thing I was told not to do. This is where playing sports and having coaches who had the ultimate authority taught me discipline. As an adult and without their sometimes harsh discipline I seemed to go through life hungering for direction. Also, through this same discipline I was taught how to pick myself up and keep going. Because it wasn’t all about me, it was about our TEAM. This team concept is one lesson that I have never lost.
At 43 years-old and a difficult adult life, I’ve had to take some hard looks in the mirror and some much needed soul searching that would’ve had the ability to piss off Gandhi. Go a step further and do this in solitude with the daily worries of a mother and a wife and it doesn’t take long for someone to start questioning whether or not the chip on my shoulder is actually worth carrying. It also has the incredible ability to lessen the teenage arrogance in my walk and anger written on my face all seemingly hidden by a smile and a few jokes. Because when you don’t have the daily distractions of life there’s nothing that can bring forth an argumentative yet very sobering day like the one staring back at you.
There have been many times that I have stared in the mirror only to see the one looking back almost as if to say, “Really? Smiles and laughter are all fun and games until you get a really good look at yourself when the clown isn’t on stage, isn’t it?” I continue to look in the mirror at the stern arrogance of the one who, in recent years, has been able to provide intimidation whenever needed. I look down at my hands remembering how much damage can be done to a room in a fit of rage. I then look at my forearms and hear the familiar taunts from 30 years prior and the feeling of words spoken as though they were being said for the first time. The adult that was to educate her never raised her hand in anger because the muscles she used as a weapon could also cause damage. I look up as tears begin to stream down my face wishing, for that moment, that someone would make the pain in my chest cease. I search for a laugh or a smile to be instantaneous medicine as it has been for the majority of my life. Instead, however, were a set of eyes belonging to a very hurt teenage child who is fixated on the guilty memory of the unknown mother who said, “She hurt my son too.” Through the tears she tried but couldn’t convey the language of her pain. Pain, as she would discover, wasn’t always spoken. And on this day, the lessons were learned.
This Puzzled Life 