September 25, 2020 darnold1975

Behind The Mask

“To those who abuse: the sin is yours, the crime is yours, and the shame is yours.”

—Flora Jessop, Church of Lies

Each year I write a Halloween blog from a different perspective. I enjoy writing a comical post but like most of my humor it covers up a harsh reality that torments me. The child in me shivers with fear as both the teenagers and adults forwardly shine with a protective humor that nothing seems to penetrate. This year I’ve decided to bring forth the vivid and cold-hearted truth of what some of my early Halloween years that were forced upon me.

The boogey man was not dressed in blue coveralls with steel toed boots. His mask was not the cast of Captain Kirk’s face and familiar theme song that can have most anyone watching the movie with the lights on. He did not escape from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium carrying with him a large butcher knife. And Jamie Lee Curtis was not the “queen of scream.” They looked like most anyone living in a neighborhood beside me and you.

The fall time of the year with the smell and feel of wet leaves leftover from the end of summer are present. A deep inhale is not one of safety but one of fear. The coolness of early fall has me reaching for a windbreaker and replay of one of the scariest times of the year. It replays over and over on a reel that never fails in a reality that never wavers with its truth.

DeviantArt

As a 5-year-old child wanting to be a part of the Halloween festivities I was excited and wanted to take part with my older friends. But the predator would again find its prey. They were more than twice my age and size. I trusted them and thought that they were there to protect me. But Halloween would strike fear in several ways. Leaving the safety of my own house I would go out looking for my friends. But I saw no one. Across the street and into our neighbors’ yard was pampas grass that stood where all us neighborhood kids had gotten our own paper cuts. I looked around the yards but saw no one. And then he appeared. In a black cape with the mask of an old man’s face I will never forget. No words were spoken just the slow walk towards me like most boogeymen. But this time the boogeyman was between me and my house of safety. Both my mind and body were on full alert. I searched for my safety and a way to get back to it while the figure walked towards me. As a 5-year-old crying and running was all I knew to do.

I ran back to my house as the figure continued to move closer. The black cape continued blowing in the wind. I ran into my house and back to my room where I locked my door and hid in my closet. Sooner rather than later the figure made its way into our house and down the hall to my locked room where pounding on my door was all that I heard. He spoke nothing. I sat quiet as a mouse hoping and praying that the figure wouldn’t again capture me for another touch and feel episode that hurt and was scary. Nope this time there was a burst of laughter from the big kids that served as their entertainment. And this time behind the mask was my friends that scared me yet again.

That year I didn’t laugh and each time I have this memory there is no laughter. I can only remember the fear that shakes inside of me as a child at a level of fear that I can’t describe. And each year during the fall season, I put on a smiling face. But I too have a life behind a mask of a little child that has never gotten over knowing the fear of being prey to someone’s seemingly innocent joke that was more than it appeared.

#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

October 31, 2019November 1, 2019 darnold1975

Angelica (poetry)

Angelica

She was still one that no one wanted around

Being kicked aside she was found

But no one had know her job

For she stepped up and sobbed

She was treated like property and chained like a dog

Submissive she was but she drew the short straw

Some would label her as an outgoing whoreface.

And she would have a scarlet letter she always wore

No one chose to get to know her only a label assigned

But she would soon get a new name designed

Her name would be Angelica and all she needed was grace.

For this would be the new name for her delicate and child-like face

#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

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, 2019June 19, 2019 darnold1975

The Collar (Poetry)

The Collar

When I was with you, you made it seem

Like you would always treat me as your queen.

You set the line and patiently waited

Wanting to see if I would take the bait.

I took that bait as soon as it hit the water

He was whispering under his breath

“HaHa! Now I’ve got her.”

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

And this was what he needed to secure her fate.

She didn’t smile much on her wedding day.

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

Instead of a ring she was given a collar

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

It kept her in line with him at the controls

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

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

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

because he told her she would kick him complete out

That night she would hear that her teammate was dead

But instead of hugs she was forcibly raped.

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

And many times he never saw her tears fall.

She wasn’t his queen nor his bride

Because all she wanted was to run and hide

From his abuse she would understand a new life.

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

She did not want this life of hell

But this was the life where she chose to dwell

His hateful words and scary threats

She doesn’t understand why he does this.

She could never do right so how can I leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I made you my legal ho.

I was nothing to you but a junkyard dog.

The door to my freedom Somehow managed to swing open.

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

I don’t care that you called me hog

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

Many screamed get out and go

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

It was comfortable because I knew that routine.

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

I thought long and hard on making a plan

I had to hurry just as fast as I can

the time came to leave him like many times before.

But this time I would keep my eyes straight ahead

and not look back at that door.

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

And with every word he said I trembled and shook.

I’m leaving him and I must be crazy.

I would never again be called fat and lazy.

I could also remove that horrible shock collar.

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

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

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

By: Dana Arnold

#thispuzzledlife

June 18, 2019June 18, 2019 darnold1975

Live To Fight Another Day

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

—-Adonis Creed, Creed 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

What December 4th Means To Me…..

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

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

to a child that is calling me “Momma.”

—Unknown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

Tears Of A Child (Poetry)

The Tears of a Child

I came into this world screamin’ and cryin’

Never knowing that the world would be lyin’.

Big hands that touched with searing pain

And it would only be for their perverted gain.

Surrounded by four walls I would cry alone

Until she opened the door and I was already gone

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

But I would never be granted any reprieve.

A Child bride I would soon become

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

I would defend you and say that life was grand

But you would crush me without even using your hands.

The venom you spewed I would also come to use

Innocent family and friends….If they only knew.

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

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

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

But the innocent screams rang so loud and clear.

She looked for the one that helped rescue her

But she was another one gone.

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

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

She was always taught to keep quiet and hide.

She also longs for the one that gave her life

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

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

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

Please help me and don’t leave me alone.

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

She keeps those tears buried deep inside

Just like when she was taught to run and hide.

If they knew and could only see

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

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019June 16, 2019 darnold1975

The Party Of One (Poetry)

The Party of One

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

You were the one that was meant for me.

Instead I was thrown away and forever shunned

I began life solo as the little party of one.

I soon had a new mommy and daddy

To look at me I appeared very happy

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

for the little girl was the party of one.

You were there to help educate our minds

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

You lied and told them I was disrespectful and having fun

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

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

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

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

All I did was develop more and more silent hate.

I did what you said but it was still my fault

Do you have any idea what lessons you taught?

You made me your dog and to you it was fun

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

I’ve tried and the answer is consistently…fail

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

along the trail.

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

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

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

I’ve wished for life to be anything but this

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

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

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

#thispuzzledlife

June 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, 2019June 13, 2019 darnold1975

This Won’t Hurt A Bit

This Won’t Hurt a Bit

“You save yourself or you remain unsaved.”
― Alice Sebol

Sometimes the simplest situations become a real struggle for me. The fear that developed many years ago is the fear of being touched. I’m not talking about just getting butterflies. My fear totally encapsulates everything about me. This makes it incredibly difficult to go to see doctors no matter the reason. I’ve been living with herniated disc issues with nerve impingement. It should just be a simple thing to go to a doctor and follow their advised regimen. For me….It’s like being put in a tub of boiling water and saying, “Be Still!”

This has to be one of the most frustrating areas of my life. I tend to stay in unneeded pain because of this intense fear. I luckily got an appointment same day I called to meet with someone about my back. When I hung up the phone from making the appointment I just started crying. The fear blankets me and the panic ensues. Knowing that I’m about to be touched by someone in a position of power and dominance is more than I can tolerate. I don’t think doctors even consider how it must feel for people who have been traumatized to be touched. There are a very small group of people that I will let hug me. And family don’t get a free pass just because they’re family. There is not one moment I like because socially it’s very embarrassing. Sitting before you is a woman who is very tense and has a smartass tone in her voice and comments. When you walk towards her she drops her head in shame only for her tears to begin dropping.

What the doctor now sees in an “immature” adult who is just being “childish.” Before I left Albuquerque, I got a respiratory infection that required antibiotics. This meant that I absolutely HAD to be seen by a doctor. This was not one of those ailments that I could stay at home and manage. I went to one of the local Urgent Care centers once again attempting to face my fears. The nurse calls me back and, of course, heads directly to the scales to be weighed. I politely tell her that I have eating disorders and that weighing makes me incredibly uncomfortable. She says, “Ok whatever. You don’t have to stay on their long. But hurry because I just pushed the button to zero out the scales.” As if the gates of hell just opened and said, “Welcome…” I quickly snap back and say, “yea I’ve had experience on scales all of my life. I would hate to inconvenience you by making you push a button again.” I completely understand that eating disorders are not something that people are typically versed in. However, the medical community I expected, at the very least, some compassion about the situation. And well…empty yet again.

Already edgy and completely irritated that my feelings were totally disregarded and invalidated, I sat up on the exam table completely embarrassed and humiliated. The hairs on the back of my neck were raised like I was about to be examined by Satan himself. The doctor soon walks in and says that she wants to listen to my chest. Not a big deal until you see that little internal child that sees another scary and painful situation where someone much bigger than you is about to touch you. It doesn’t matter what their intentions are at this point. My fierce protector began her warm up with the nurse and is waiting to pounce in protection of this child.

The closer the doctor gets the more I begin to shake uncontrollably in fear. I begin sobbing at the first step. The doctor replies quickly without one ounce of compassion, “What is this childish reaction? You’re being ridiculous.” I reply, “Ma’am I have been molested and raped during my life and being touched is very scary no matter the reason.” She says, “Well this reaction is just ridiculous. You are an adult and shouldn’t be acting like a toddler!” I said, “Ma’am why don’t you just give me some damn medicine so we can be out of each other’s life. You’re stomping on that one damn nerve that I had left before I even walked in here. You have a personality like a bag full of badgers and you have the compassion of a pit viper! Medical school has you guys so scared of transference that you’re practically dead from the neck up.”

What the doctor didn’t know was that I had gotten so scared that I peed in my pants. I left as soon as possible with tears still in my eyes and wet pants. I thought to myself, “Why did I even try again? This is why I don’t go see doctors. They don’t care and don’t listen.” Examples I can list for days about my interactions with doctors. Yearly pap smears, mammograms and whatever that needs to be checked have not been done in several years. Even with Mel going with me as added support it’s like dropping me right back into the situations that scared me to begin with. I can’t stay grounded and switching happens in fast forward depending on the type of doctor.

We have both spoken with doctors and asked if I could be sedated to have cancer screenings done. There answer’s always, “well we might could do some Xanax.” Mel’s reply is always, “not unless you want her to catch a charge. That medicine makes her very aggressive and well…she doesn’t need any help in that area.” They always reply, “I’m sorry there’s nothing that can be done.” Of course I have my own questions in return. I usually say, “Ok let me get this straight….so in the year 2017 we have dentists who can sedate because of adults and children with severe fears and anxieties about their visit. But for sexual assault survivors who fear being touched there’s nothing that can be done to simply help with cancer screenings? Doctor do you see how that rationale is about the dumbest I’ve ever heard of?” I’ve been told before, “well maybe you should see a therapist.” My smartass reply, “Oh well thanks for the advice. I never considered seeing a therapist to make things better. When do you think I should make an appointment? And by the way….I told you all of that at the beginning of this visit. Maybe active listening skills should be something you work on while I’m in therapy.”

What just happened was that I was highly triggered before I ever entered the office. But the visit turned out to be that I was touched and not heard. And well, that makes the visit counterproductive for us both. It really just hammers home the idea that my feelings don’t matter and they are touching me anyway, no matter the reason. Sounds a lot like what my perpetrators did. The only difference seemed to be that this touch simply came from someone in a white coat who was trying to help me.

Have you ever noticed how we as a society ask people how they’re doing but we don’t really want to know how anyone but ourselves and immediate family are doing? The reason is that we aren’t prepared to hear how someone is actually doing. We often don’t know how to respond and makes for a very uncomfortable social situation. In regards to medical professionals, some type of education needs to be taught about the long term effects of abuse on children and adults. Shaming patients is so damaging. Even saying, “This won’t hurt a bit” is a mute point.

I want and need my medical issues to be addressed desperately. But repeats of this situation keep me away because of the extreme embarrassment and shaming that typically occurs, maybe even innocently, at the hands of someone in a “one up” position. When this happens I don’t see a doctor. I see those same hands that caused the initial fear coming for me again.

For those that think abuse have no long term effects…..THINK AGAIN.

#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 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 9, 2019 darnold1975

Closing The Chaper

Closing the Chapter

12.29.2017

“If you’re brave enough to say goodbye, life will give you a new hello.”

—Paulo Coehlo

Since the end of 2017 is fast approaching and writing has not really been a priority because basic mental and physical survival grabbed that #1 spot this year. Our little family complete with two little boys that are a beautifully and hysterical mixture of zombie fighter, American Ninja Warrior, chicken nuggets, boogers, poop, sweat, nerf guns, goat head stickers and a nice dose of generalized “Little boy GROSS” seem to be the perfect description for our two little Albuquerque charges. And it’s because of these two little boys and the love that Mel and I still have for each other that our family is currently closing the chapter here.

Mel and I, for several years now have been looking for a way or a reason to leave Albuquerque. There are several reasons but mainly because you just seem to know when it’s time to move on. In June 2009 shortly after completing graduate school at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, MS we set out fleeing our conservative homeland with the goal of one day being parents. We had no jobs and really no direction but we wanted to leave and leave we did. But not without big dreams for life in the southwest. I had one personal dream of working as a drug/alcohol therapist with the Native American population which would come to fruition. We didn’t know what life had to offer but we were ready to face anything or so we thought. And for the next 8 years our life would be about a lot of struggle.

Life was about to teach us some incredibly difficult and painful lessons about facing adversity, our expectations of the word “friendship,” the devastating lasting effects of abuse, the painful sting of death of friends, family and yes both Copeland and Marshall’s twins, a representation of the sad shape of the country’s mental health system, the awareness of how uneducated the legal system is about mental illness, the understanding of how damaging bad therapy can be and the eventual realization that there are still some damn good therapists out there who are truly doing what they love are passionate about for the right reasons. And the true meaning of the words “SACRIFICE” and “LOVE.”

We both landed jobs with a temp agency within the billion dollar company Fidelity Investments. Mel would eventually be offered a job as a Fidelity employee which would include fertility benefits that would make our dreams of being parents possible. With both of us being adopted, neither of us wanted to adopt but I had no desire to carry. Mel would be “chomping at the bits” to step into that role. Having finally divorced a very mentally and sexually abusive 14 year relationship I seemed to just be “unsettled” but tried not to pay it too much attention. So, I jumped into a doctoral program to help fulfill whatever need it was that I was looking to fill.

I would fall absolutely head over heels working with the homeless. Coming from small town where the drug problem and crime is more of a nuisance rather than a way of life, we were about to be in for a big shock. Watching the FOX reality show COPS could easily be achieved by sitting on our front porch and just watching the action. With a large transient population and our first residence being directly off historic Route 66 in downtown Albuquerque being touched by the crime was inevitable. I would soon realize, however, that the costs of addiction in every facet I would encounter was at a ground zero status. This level of addiction would simultaneously be challenging and heartbreaking. The homeless population I would work with included members of the 200+ gangs in the city, skin heads, murders, rapists, drug dealers and anyone seeking free county funded medical detox. I would develop a deep down love for working with these men and women who had their own individual needs but underneath their natural edginess and attitude there was a beating heart in their chest. Very quickly a mutual respect was developed and we looked forward to seeing each other daily.

Soon my ever increasing mental health troubles couldn’t be discounted as stress. It would eventually become such a big problem that it would turn into a search for answers which continues today. A few years later all of the strange and at times increasingly debilitating symptoms and a myriad of diagnoses several professionals would concur on the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder. I could accept just about any diagnosis but this one. I just didn’t see how it was possible. Mel and I both looked at each other like I had just given birth to a baby giraffe. I can safely say that we were both in denial about this one.

I thought if I just tried really hard that there was no need for this stigmatizing label. What I learned a few years later is that no matter how much I attempt to be a normal person with normal problems, I just wasn’t. I can’t even begin to convey to you the long term effects that abuse has had on my being able to function as an adult. As with most things humor can be found if you look hard enough. But some of the effects on both the individual and the family can be devastating.

My active working career with my brand new degree would be short lived. This disorder has left me unable to work since our oldest son, Marshall, was born 6 years ago. Nevertheless both of our little preemie boys and their love for us as their parents can make it possible to “white knuckle” situations longer than you ever imagine. Many hospital visits, treatment programs and literally blood, sweat and tears later I went to an inpatient trauma program in Denton, TX desperate for help and terrified. Mel and I began realizing that there are many professionals in that area that actually specialize in treating this disorder. Complicating this new found information was my intense fear of professionals or anyone in position of authority. I would meet one at the inpatient program that apparently has the patience of Job and could see right past my spewing venomous rage directly into the pain and hurt.

The loss of our beloved Sarah Pardue in 2015 to cancer has truly left me feeling completely alone and floundering with no direction. She was my YODA and a voice of reason that I would actually listen to. Her loss brought me to my knees and feeling like someone had figuratively broken my back. Every since I’ve been in a downward spiral that leaves both me and Mel in awe that I’m here to write about it.

The challenge then became how do we get me access to these services from Albuquerque where we seemed to be forever bound. About 6 months later our answers would be revealed. One thing kept gnawing at me….Why did those people at that treatment center care? I was so loud and flamboyant about who wasn’t going to make me do shit. I was on a locked until which is a huge trigger for me since part of my trauma is from being or feeling trapped. So, I’m usually just a pain in the ass for that type of staff. They didn’t tuck tail and run which made me do a double take.

So for the next couple of months it would be having Mel drive me and the kids to Dallas for a session and then turning around and making the 10 hour trip back to Albuquerque. The compassion and expertise we finally found was something that we would come to realize that would be a necessity for my ultimate survival. That would mean leaving our trusted therapist of 8 years here, in Albuquerque, who had been the only evidence of consistency we would experience here. Another inpatient stay in Denton, TX with completely different circumstances and the results were disastrous. I could do nothing but cry.

My soul and heart ached and longed for the wise words of Sarah. “What the hell do I do now?!!!” I kept saying. I couldn’t imagine what she would say because it was in this moment that I needed to hear her talk and that wasn’t an option. At some point among the tears I remember very clearly Sarah saying, “Dana there will be times when you have no idea what to do next in life and I won’t be around.” Panicked I would ask, “Well mom what the hell do I do then?!!!” She looked at me and said with that comforting smile….”The next right thing whatever that is.” I would always ask her, “Well, what the hell is that going to be?” and she would say “to let life show you what to do next.” I had no idea how profound that conversation we would have at different times would be for me.

It would soon be suggested that I look into a new and upcoming treatment facility called Healing Springs Ranch in Tioga, TX. I have to laugh because even now I think what the hell is in Tioga, TX? Once you see how really small of a town they are tipping the scales at 886 for a population. And I’m pretty sure that more than once I communicated with some of the local residents by saying, “MOOOOOOOO!!!!” But deep in the heart of a big ass pasture there is a magical place that has healing vibes complete with fishing, kayaking, paddle boats, golf, swimming and other activities while surrounded by wildlife that doesn’t seem to fear humans in any capacity. I mean those little animals don’t even fear Chef Corey who can make a mean dish out of damn near anything. More than once I felt guilty for eating those plates that were like portraits.

Having been in the nation’s mental health system for the majority of my adult life treatment centers don’t typically exude compassion with many staff much less those in charge. Healing Springs Ranch is no ordinary place. From the minute you darken the doors compassion and passion seems to ooze out of every pore that makes up that place. Hey, you know for me the term “Open Campus” vs. “Locked Unit” took me very little time to make the decision to go directly back to treatment. They also said that individuals with Dissociative Identity Disorder were also treated there. Boundaries were made very clear and I began to thrive. I hungered and longed for boundaries but wanted the freedom from being a typical psychiatric patient. It proved to me very quickly that compassion, boundaries and freedom from being “trapped” can do a lot for someone who struggles living life through trauma colored lenses. Sometimes all you need to treat a sudden case of anxiety is a beautiful walk and a smart-ass comment from Charlie the Squirrel. Or the sight of that one special therapist coming to work that stops her car on the path that goes by the cows just to say, “Good Morning cows! Today I will not eat hamburger.”

And now that she’s gone life showed us answers just like she said. And now under the heading of SACRIFICE and LOVE, Mel and I have decided that the best thing for our family, after years of looking for a sign of hope, that I will move to Texas to do this work individually. They will move back to Mississippi for the support that they need while I make this part of the journey with someone who will be one of the most powerful coaches of my life surrounded by a chosen family of trauma survivors. As we close the chapter on Albuquerque and 2017, with tears in my eyes I’m cautiously optimistic and yet terrified in the same breath. Life is very scary for this adult teenager. I’m heading back east knowing confidently one thing…..that I’ve always been coachable. That I’m doing the next right thing and I’m positive that Sarah would give her stamp of approval on this decision. My statement in life is this….”There’s no way that I can fail now.”

#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 6, 2019 darnold1975

Wolves In Sheep’s Clothing

Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

8.3.15

“Hiding my pain and acting strong, afraid to cry and

show my tears, I struggle with all this years later.”

― Erin Merryn, Living for Today: From Incest and Molestation to Fearlessness and Forgiveness

I’m playing ‘catch up’ on topics and knew that I would eventually need to talk about the topic of the Duggar family. I know that a lot of media coverage has made hearing the Duggar name sound as comforting as snuggling with a pit viper. In all fairness, though, I’ve waited to talk about this topic in the blog for a while on purpose. I had a total system ‘shock and awe’ event that happened when details of the events were released. Talk about ripping a scab off a deep and very painful wound. Here let’s just start from when Mel and I began watching them….

Mel and I had been watching the Duggars’ program 19 Kids and Counting for a couple of years on and off. We usually watched them when nothing else was on because of their radical, fundamentalist views. However, when we did watch the show, I enjoyed watching the strange dynamics within the family like many of the other reality shows on television now. We usually have fun diagnosing or predicting future diagnoses of each member of the families we have the pleasure of watching them interact together. Yes, when both you and your spouse have counseling degrees and can recognize dysfunction a mile away, then watching reality TV tends to be so much more interesting.

Anyway, watching the children interact but also factoring in that networks need their ratings to remain profitable, you can just tell that with that many kids in one family, that all needs are not met for healthy mental development. Aside from the fact that I feel deeply sorry for the mother’s uterus for having to birth that many children, I still had a deep concern for the mental well being of the children. I would and do feel sorry for children who have to grow up in families where their religious beliefs are as abusive as any object or fist that’s thrown or used on the child. Where these families might have the best intentions for their children biblically, it’s not healthy physically or mentally for children to grow up with such strict “laws” imposed on them by their caretakers.

When you have 19 children, you are setting them up for failure. I have read and watched how the Duggar’s children interact and an older child is put in charge of a younger child. Ummmm…..did I say that they are both children? Yep, children should not be expected nor put in the position of ever having to be a parental figure to a younger child. I realize that this happens even in smaller families and even non-religious families and it’s still destructive.

When the news about Josh Duggar and the molestation began littering social media and other news sources, it didn’t take long for my heart to drop to the pit of my stomach. I had a gut feeling about what had been the probable cause of the events but I wanted and had to hear more. I was torn about isolating myself from the story because of how triggering it had already begun to be at the first mention of his actions. The only way to explain how I felt was completely emotionally confused but needed to know more.

I was correct in my assumptions that the children were not being taught about healthy sexuality. In many evangelical or other radical religions, the topic of sex and healthy sexuality are seldom discussed anything beyond “don’t do it or you’ll go to hell.” So, children grow up not understanding fully and thinking that it’s wrong or deviant for natural body exploration. Jim Bob Duggar, the father of the multitude, was quoted after walking in on one of his son’s masturbating that “idle hands are the devil’s playthings.” He then proceeded to punish his son by making him do chores with his hands tied. What this suppression will lead to is sexual frustration and confusion. Everyone has been around a teenage male at some point in their life. The last thing they need is SUPPRESSION!!!!! Heck, I would like to hand out extra sets of hands. I’d also like to point out that proving to the nation that you can produce a zoo just because you have the parts is not exactly an example of healthy sexual practices either.

The more I began to dig into the Duggar’s handling and subsequent minimizing of the situation is when I became so triggered that started becoming physically ill. Then, I began to watch as many members of other “Christian” religions also minimize the actions of Josh Duggar. I soon became enraged at what I was hearing and seeing. The attitudes I was seeing were collectively stating, “He said he was sorry and asked for forgiveness, now leave him alone. It was an innocent teenage mistake.” Are you kidding me?!

Standby as I paint the picture of the rest of the crimes that were committed. Keep in mind that Josh Duggar perpetrated 5 female children, 4 of which were his sisters. The initial crimes were committed in 2002-2003. Josh would’ve been 14 or 15 at the time. The behavior was done repeatedly and the parents, as well as, other church members were well aware of what had transpired. Josh’s parents stated that he was put in a program that consisted of physical labor and counseling. Ok, brace yourself for this next part….

The program that he had allegedly been attending consisted of being sent away for three months to do construction work remodeling a building with a ‘mentor.’ This individual has since been convicted and is serving a 56 year sentence for child pornography. Also, none of the adults that were aware of the incidences ever reported the abuse to the authorities. That in itself is a crime! Conveniently, the statutes of limitations had also run out by the time authorities were notified. No therapeutic counseling or treatment has been provided for Josh or his victims. If it sounds like I’m also taking up for Josh, make no mistake that I’m doing no such thing.

His parents minimization of the situation was clearly put on stage in an interview with FOXNEWS….” it wasn’t like this was some sort of terrible violation. It was just a little sexual groping of one’s sleeping sisters.” “There were a couple incidents where he touched them under their clothes,” Jim Bob said. “But it was a few seconds.” Now if that turned your stomach imagine how the children felt when their own father and mother described ‘sexual purity’ after their abuse. Engage in any kind of sexual activity before marriage and you’re as desirable as a banged-up bike or a cup of spit: This is the message the Duggar parents conveyed to the girls who had been sexually assaulted by their older brother.

The Duggar sexual philosophy is that girls’ bodies do not belong to themselves. They’re under the authority of another male figure, and then they belong to their husbands. There is no individual right of female sexual pleasure. There is no value placed on female bodily autonomy, ownership or control. The message is that girls’ bodies are never their own, that the girls themselves are simply vessels for male pleasure, male desires, and male authority, and the girls’ job is to preserve their bodies to hand over to the appropriate man. Ok, this was not their “husband” anyway. It was their brother for God’s sake. If you were raised in a home with these types of beliefs would you, as a female child, said anything already knowing that your fears and confusion would not be validated?

From someone who has been sexually assaulted as a child and later as an adult, the lasting effects reach far beyond most “non-touched” people’s minds. I must keep reiterating that just because I had sexual trauma does not correlate to my being gay. Seems like an elementary concept to some but it still needs to be driven home to others. I was also one that didn’t think that being molested had any long term effects because until my 30s, I had not remembered any lingering negative effects from the incidents. I was also in the middle of still surviving a very emotionally, mentally and sexually damaging marriage at the time that took every ounce of energy. I was also in college working on my undergraduate degree at the time of issues arising directly related to my molestation at a young age which helped to keep my mind occupied.

When our oldest son Marshall was born, I started noticing a lot of anxiety about giving baths; changing diapers and anything requiring basic care regarding hygiene and his genitalia. I would actually start to sweat while changing diapers. I would get nauseous and often times cry while not knowing why I couldn’t do basic “mommy duties.” I felt as if I were violating him in some way. I felt dirty and just wrong for simply trying to take care of our baby. The same type of “innocent teenage mistake” that I’ve heard Josh Duggar’s actions referred to was robbing me of the pleasure of being a mom.

The effects of the guys that touched me both as a child and adult reach far beyond just our son. This information is reserved for the brave souls that continue to work with us both as a family and a system. There’s many more statements made by the Duggar’s that absolutely turn my stomach. Josh Duggar committed a crime and was at an age where he knew that touching his sisters was wrong. To have the behavior reinforced by adults, two being primary caretakers, who knew the behavior was continuing and refused to report it to the authorities or get the proper help that their son needed says to me that there’s more than one perpetrator. What makes this situation even more hurtful was that their weapon of choice was the Bible.

#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, 2019June 1, 2019 darnold1975

Passing The Torch

Passing the Torch

2.17.15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah G. Pardue

7/11/53-2/11/15

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

#Thispuzzledlife

May 30, 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 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

More Traveling

8.19.14

“She was a stranger in her own life, a tourist in her own body.”
― Melissa de la Cruz, The Van Alen Legacy

I always feel the need to speak about toddler events in the mornings because well…..sometimes they’re just funny. So, I was doing the usual getting Marshall ready for school and loaded in the car. I asked him if he would like some cheetos since that’s what we had in the car for him as a snack. He shook his head and said, “Momma D, no cheetos…only toes!” “Ok, Marshall, mommy will only call them ‘toes’ from now on.” Sometimes this kid makes me really laugh.

The term “traveling” has a much different definition to me than the general public seems to understand. When “traveling, “I’m definitely anywhere I want to be. I could be on the beach somewhere enjoying the sun or checking out the lesbian buffet. Every place can be new or one that seems to bring much emotional comfort. However, sometimes the memories of abuse invade and I to go elsewhere without even knowing it. To the average person, a function such as this doesn’t seem that different from seemingly “ignoring” the spouse or a boss. Everyone at some point wishes they were somewhere different especially when at work or just needing a vacation. Most people don’t use this as a defense mechanism but rather just ‘daydreaming.’

As a child, throughout my molestation, I was mentally forced to be somewhere else. I couldn’t possibly deal with things as they were. Each time I knew of another “episode,” my mind would go elsewhere. I had no idea that the ‘dissociation’ had occurred. I just knew that I couldn’t physically and mentally handle the situation at hand. The specifics about the molestation are going to be left to my very brave therapists.

Over time, this natural and sometimes forced dissociation becomes second nature. Just I like said in an earlier post about with PTSD symptoms happening when there is an actual or ‘perceived’ threat, this has now become an automatic type of coping mechanism. Since, I have apparently been doing this since very early childhood even without my knowing, this behavior has become a daily response to anything ‘perceived’ as threatening. To put these ‘threats’ in perspective for you, I can give you examples of ‘perceived threats.’ Things such as: loud noises, too many people in one area, too much visual, tactile and auditory stimulation, social situations, being by myself, being touched by someone, hollering, bad weather, and many more situations. As you can imagine, I have varying reactions to therapy because I’m processing everything that happened on different levels. So, seeing me as the person you know is completely different from what and how they see me as a person. I’m still the same person you know and grew up with if you see me. You probably won’t know anything has ever happened or is wrong. After all, we are taught from a very young age to keep things in the family even if the family doesn’t know.

Dealing with the trauma on such different levels, my therapists and wife get to see very unique sides of me. Dissociation is very natural for me especially while in therapy. Sometimes I can stop it and sometimes I can’t. This can and does present problems in therapy at times, but we work through it and figure out what’s happening. The goal is to try and minimize “traveling,” while getting use to not using it at all to function daily? Is this possible? Really, I don’t know. I am trusting in the people that I work with to guide me through this healing process. I have to admit that I wish there was some kind of ‘rapid’ trauma treatment that I can do while under sedation. Almost like processing without being conscious of what is going on. This, unfortunately, isn’t part of the process. The part of the process I’m currently in is one of both mental and physical chaos. I do the best that I can because that’s what I was taught by both my parents and coaches even when it’s scary as hell.

I write because everything else scares me to the point of vomiting. I have lost 40lbs because of the stress on both me and my family. I’m not currently restricting in regards to eating disorder behavior. Even though, I definitely have a lot of “eating disorder” thoughts and some behaviors especially in public or with certain people. But, I go sometimes for days without knowing that I haven’t eaten. I have even overdosed on medication and had no idea until a couple of days later that this had occurred. I go for minutes, hours, day and sometimes weeks with not knowing what has transpired. I simply understand this as “traveling.” Sometimes I have done things in that ‘state’ that I am and will continue to be embarrassed about. Things are said and done are like a game that I think people are playing with me to make me feel bad. I have bought things, gone places, eaten, not eaten, had conversations, had arguments and have had ‘rage’ events that I have no memory of happening.

I carry a lot of guilt and shame once I understand days later what has happened. Does this sound like a quality of life to you? My perpetrators have left a war for me to deal with everyday. I simply try to win one battle at a time until the war is over. Medical marijuana just helps with a lot of the horrible physical and mental symptoms that I have from all of this. It doesn’t take back anything that happened. I have to take a lot of this medication to be able to go out in public or therapy because everything’s so painful. For those that think that ”a drug is a drug,” you’re right it’s just like insulin being used as a medicine. And sorry my disordered behavior has nothing to do with marijuana except to keep both the public and me safe. I have a quality of life now that I haven’t had before. Not everyone uses this plant as a medication or recreationally within limits. There are actually people who no longer think about suicide because they the government has made a medication legal that can also give them a quality of life that they never saw possible. There are a lot more people that use and die from prescribed medications that the trusted doctors administer. Please educate yourself on this, someone you know might can and could benefit from this plant one day. It just might be you!

#Thispuzzledlife

Image May 27, 2019May 29, 2019 darnold1975

Roots, Branches & Chosen

8.11.14

“The effect you have on others is the most valuable currency there is.”

—Jim Carrey

I’ve been looking over my blog and have decided that there is some pertinent information missing. The main thing that I would like to point out is this……… “Just because of my sexual abuse history with men, please understand that this is not why I’m gay. Men scare me, yes. But, I’ve always been attracted to the same sex.”

The term “family” has a meaning, for me, which has evolved over time and continues to do so. The title of this blog is the categories that I have broken the types of “family” that I choose to identify. The first category is Roots. This category identifies me on sight by the color of my hair, gender, facial features, and other DNA in general. This is where identity helps to be formed. All of physical “stuff,” comes from my “birth” parents. Good or bad, they would be the vehicles, by which, I entered the world.

Who consist of the Branches? This would be my “adoptive” parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. These were the people that actually raised me. For the “adopted child” this is where the Nature vs. Nurture debate is warranted. So, the person that “I” reflect back to people is a combination of both nature and nurture. Personality definitely has genetic components to back it up. But, how one was or was not nurtured is still not what makes up a personality completely. There are also social factors that help to make up one’s personality.

OK so, my “Chosen” family are the ones that have a very special description. My “chosen” family are those that have no blood or other family relations to me. These “family” members tend to be much more plentiful except that my daddy has a very large family. When I was younger these “special” people where my teammates and close family friends. Today, this category includes members of the “gay” community. Since reuniting with my best friend from 20+ years ago, Levi Pierce, I now know what it’s like to actually have a brother. These are people that have watched and continue to watch me struggle, but continue to love me anyway. They have celebrated when I do and cried with me and I with them. These are people whose “trust” actually means something. These are the people that if they need you at 2:00 am, I know that they would listen. But, they’re also the same people that will put their foot ever so harshly in my ass if I need it. And when they do it, you always know that it’s coming from a place of love and not from abuse. The level of “trust” for them has been tested and passed with flying, sometimes, rainbow colors. I have always been told, “I knew you were. I was just waiting for you to be ready to tell it for yourself.” That is a stunning example of the kind of mutual respect that the relationship with them encompasses. If I get a call that one of them needs me, consider it done! I will drive across the country, even to the small, little, southern town that I actually will begin retching just thinking about it, if one of them needed support.

I also have a “therapeutic” family. These are the people that have seen and continue to see how abuse can affect someone years later. These are some of the people that I have been in treatments with that are considered “safe” people. I have very strong bonds with these individuals. They are always learning about how each one of our brains is similar yet different. This can actually be pretty damn funny at times. We understand and respect “trauma” humor that most people would find distasteful. They know I’m “quirky” about things and well..sometimes they have the same “quirks.” I can tell them anything that’s going on with my brain and not be “judged” for it. Many nights, I have stayed up very late talking to them.

So, you see….the term “family” has evolved over time to encompass more than just what people see as a “typical” family. Melody, Marshall and I don’t have a “typical, Focus on the Family” type of family. But, make no mistake….we and those that love and support us are all “FAMILY.”

#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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