Category: Recovery

Into the Blue Again

I’ve been avoiding this place, for a host of reasons I can’t even name. Part is simple fear – that drawing attention to the sunlight filtering through the cracks would somehow destroy it. Part is not having any mental energy left over for something as (useless, exhausting) as exposition. I’ve been so busy crawling out of the pit I couldn’t do more than wave away the fleeting thoughts of ‘maybe you should write this down.’

Well. Sunlight has indeed been eclipsed by clouds. I’ve slid back down the stone wall enough that I can see just how high my bloody hand prints got.

It doesn’t help that you knew a crash would come. It was as inevitable as the tides, as the way the blood on the stone walls dries and flakes off, leaving nothing but the ghost of the sheer effort it took to get that far up. Granted, I still couldn’t see the top but I was far enough to know it was there. To get an occasional gust of fresh breeze.

(Sudden memory, the guy from the team building exercise that was one part group therapy and one part ‘let the loonies get some fresh air’. He called me Cool Breeze and looked at me like I was something special. I was, back then. Sometimes I think if I could just … look like that again, some of my problems would go away. Body dysmorphia may not be the worst of my problems, but it’s top five at least.)

So. Take a weekend of fever and illness, the attending isolation and loneliness. I just wanted someone to walk the dog for me. Bring me soup. Instead I had to have a discussion with J about what to do if I passed out on the floor. He did not want to hear that shit. He never does. I still don’t know for sure if he’ll be able to do what he needs if something happens to me.

Let’s top that off with dreams, back to the full-blown dystopian sci-fi shit I didn’t think I would have to deal with again. I was so happy to know the metoprolol worked as a sleeping pill/dream aid – as long as the dreams were bringing my OCs to life to live and breath on their own. Now that we’re back to the unpleasant dreams I’m less than amused. Especially considering my heart is still thumping from the mess I had to clean up.

That was the final straw. I was not having a great morning but I was determined to work through it. Do what I needed then sit down with my cup of coffee, maybe a bowl, and get my head screwed on right so I could be a functioning adult. It lasted until I knocked over the cup and spilled 8 ounces of hot coffee all over the floor.

Now the weasels are running wild, my heart is thumpy, and I am ready to Give Up.

That’s the worst part of the climb, you know? Not the bleeding fingers desperately digging into stone to find enough purchase to get a grip on. Not the effort. Not even the reason I’m in the pit in the first place. It’s knowing all that effort was wasted . That it was useless to even try to climb out.

Same as it ever was.

Jacob Marley’s Chain

I cross each thing off as a small victory. Yesterday I bathed the boy, brushed through his tangles, ran the dishwasher. Boiled eggs. Dealt with with 2 televisits. Today I’ve bathed the dog, listened to music, restlessly prowled all my folders, burning for something to make. I hope to take a shower later, even.


I think about the scalpel as much as I think about everything that’s led me to this moment in time. I think about scarification. About a lovely paisley design decorating my left inner forearm – the one with the old scars, with the blood oath tattoo I gave to a God.

I think: a few cuts won’t hurt.

I think: turn the need to spill blood into art.

I think this is all a ruse to simply get the blade in my hand. Once I hold it, for whatever reason, it’s only a matter of time. There’s a reason cutting instruments were banned from my house for so many years.


What hurts the most about feeling good, having good days, is knowing it won’t last. Knowing anything can – will – push me back to the floor. I’ll have a bad health day, or unlock another memory, anything, or even nothing at all, and I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to not give in to the scalpel’s high, lonesome cry.

Why not just … get rid of them?

Because I don’t know where they are. Well, two of them. One is in a drawer less than six feet from where I sit, but it’s been used as a tool so much that it’s no good for cutting. I may be suicidal but I’m not stupid – or desperate – enough to try cutting on myself with a dull blade covered in old, sticky pot resin.

The other two are clean and pristine, shiny new. Perfect for drawing paisley on skin. I don’t dare go looking for them. I don’t want to see them real; in my daydreams is hard enough.


Well. This is certainly a post to drop here after more than a year of silence. What was once supposed to be a blog about crawling out of the wreckage of thirty years worth of abuse – about rediscovering myself – is now likely to be derailed by the utter shitstorm of PTSD that I’ve been crawling through the last year.

I’m hoping to be like Andy Dufresne, crawl through a river of shit and come out clean on the other side. I’m desperately afraid my arms will give out and I’ll drown face first in this mess. If only I had Morgan Freeman narrating, maybe that would give me a better chance.

(Although lbr here, Samuel L Jackson would be a much more fitting narrator for me.)

Anyway. I guess this now a new form of recovery blog; one that deals with the 50 years of abuse. Whee. Aren’t you excited?


Well, today a friend told me this sorry tale
As he stood there trembling and turning pale
He said each day’s harder to get on the scale
Sort of like Jacob Marley’s chain.

But it’s not like life is such a veil of tears
It’s just full of thoughts that act as souvenirs
For those tiny blunders made in yester-years
That comprise Jacob Marley’s chain.

Well, I had a little metaphor to state my case
It encompassed the condition of the human race but to my dismay,
It left without a trace except for the sound of Jacob Marley’s chain.

Now there is no story left for me to tell so I think
I’d rather just go on to hell where there’s a snowball’s chance
That the personnel might help to carry Jacob Marley’s chain