It Has Begun

Today I brought my therapist a trauma narrative showing ten years of ritualistic sexual violence.  I haven’t been able to speak the words to her in all the years we’ve worked together, so I just took a chance and wrote it out.  She read it in session and assured me that she saw no difference in me.  I am glad of that.

We’re going to work through the trauma paragraph-by-paragraph until it no longer has a hold on my life and mind.  It took five years to do this with my memory of physical trauma.  I have no idea how long this journey will take, but I am so lucky to have a wonderful therapist at my side.

I walk in to this a terrified person who feels ashamed of her body at all costs.  I hope to walk out of it with peace and pride.  It has begun.


What Might Have Been

My thoughts have been going down that road all weekend, and it’s dangerous.  I look back on certain situations in my past and wonder how they might have turned out if x had or hadn’t happened.  This is futile at best and dangerous at worst.  A decade ago, something happened in my life that lost me quite a few friends.  It’s been an entire bloody decade, and the thought of it still floors me.  I felt I had everything going for me.  Then, one person and one event tore it all down.  The logical part of me realises that means it simply wasn’t meant to be.  The emotional part of me wants to stamp my feet and demand the chances back again.

This has left me quite depressed.  I’m not suicidal, but I keep having these fleeting thoughts like ‘what would happen if I just slit my wrists.’  Maybe I just want a visible indication of how I feel whilst the smile sits on my face.  I wish I could somehow communicate to someone exactly how miserable I feel, but trauma dictates that I keep smiling and avoid bothering people.  Therapy this week.  Hopefully, I’ll drop the facade there and actually process this stuff.  In the meantime, I shall sit here typing away and trying to stay in the present.  The past is just so hard to resist.

Latest Diagnosis

I saw my new therapist for the second time yesterday.  This is good, as the past weekend was a bit difficult.  She wasn’t particularly helpful, but I was at least able to hint at what happened, and she was able to figure it out.  She stared at me for a bit, silently, and then told me the psychiatrist mentioned dissociation or depersonalisation.

We talked for a bit about ‘zoning out’ and feeling like your life is going on without you.  I told her that, to me, the spacey feeling was like being in the audience watching yourself as an actor in a play.  You’re not sure where you stop and the world begins.  She worked for quite some deciphering the difference between dissociation and depersonalisation, stopping every now and again to ask me questions.

She said aloud that she does not diagnose dissociative disorders, as the literature tends toward multiple personalities, and she does not believe in that.  Surprising.  The final diagnosis is Depersonalisation Disorder, which joins Bipolar I Disorder and PTSD.  Before long, I’ll just be diagnosed as DSM Disorder.  They’ll all fit.  Growl.

It is good, though, to know how the shrink and therapist are going to classify my spacing out.  At least they have a name for it now.

Shh…My Energy Is Sleeping

I’m fortunate to be spending time with my FOC at the moment. Getting here involves a bit of travelling, so I can’t afford to make the trip frequently. When I *can* come in, though, we all have a great time simply being together. It’s the definition of FOC. We came to a conclusion quite some time ago– their house has life-sucking properties.

My perceptions are relatively strong. I can see auras, as well as energy fields, and I often know things about my friends instinctively. My FOC’s house has always been a place where I can relax. In fact, it’s becoming a place where more and more people can relax. One night, during a meditation, I noticed an energy field within this house. It’s relaxing and peaceful. It’s also strong and widespread. I can feel it immediately upon walking through the door. The difference in the energy outside and the energy inside is phenomenal. Even though most of the others who come through are probably unaware of the energy field, they certainly feel its effects.

My brother-of-choice refers to the effects as malaizy– a sort of extreme inertia. For him, it can be bothersome. I’m wondering if that has to do with a constant exposure. Energy does build up, afterall. Others seem to pick up on this energy as a much needed inertia. The madness of the Universe seems to halt for visitors to this house, moreso than other places. Madness won’t be stopped completely, of course.

For me, visiting here is a chance to be myself completely. I first visited here eight years ago. At the time, I was frightened to even leave a toothbrush visible; I wanted to make sure my existence was noticed as little as possible. Definitely a result of my trauma background. Bit by bit, though, I’m learning to work through some of those issues. I’m learning to process hidden information that must be shoved deeply inside in my daily life. That’s not to say it can’t be scary sometimes still. I’ll probably always try to make myself invisible from time to time. As with trauma survivors in general, though, step by step is necessary. My FOC are great about helping me learn the norms of ‘life out here,’ and I’m thankful for that.


As a survivor of Satanic Ritual Abuse, I’ve been through some rather harrowing things.  It’s odd to me, then, when non-SRA related incidents bend my knees.

I live in an area that was decimated by the ice storm that hit the South East US this past January/early February.  We had no electricity for almost a month and were using a gas stove eye to raise the temperature in our house to around 45F (7C).  We nearly ran out of food and were depending on the National Guard to help.  People died.  My *neighbour* died, for that matter, from an improperly ventilated heater.  I didn’t know him, but it was truly frightening to know someone so nearby died from the storm.

Trees fell everywhere.  The night that the majority of the ice fell (2 inches in total over 2 inches of snow) we could hear crashes as trees and branches and electric lines fell.  Since there was no electricity, we had to wait until morning to survey the damage completely.  It was absolutely terrifying.  When we woke up, it looked like a war zone outside.  *All* of the electric lines in our area were down.  So many trees were down that we could see a house across the field that had been blocked before.  Many of the trees that stayed standing had branches touching the ground.  Words can’t describe the decimation.

Today I found some pictures I’d taken the day after the ice fell, and I started shaking.  Everything flashed through my mind– standing in the National Guard lines watching people fighting to get basic resources, the cold, the darkness, running out of water, part of the roof of our house falling like a building block fortress– all those things I guess I hadn’t really looked at until now.  Maybe I’m overreacting, but the flashbacks felt traumatic.

It’s been roughly four months since the storm, and even though most of our communities have rebuilt, we’re still feeling the effects.  We’ve had quite alot of thunderstorms lately, and some of the electric lines that were fragile after the ice storm have fallen.  Not a great deal, and certainly not enough to cause mass chaos, but a few nonetheless.  We’ve had a couple of times when the electricity to our county went out again, but never for more than a day.  Spring definitely looks different, as the landscape was changed dramatically.  Still, the trees have bloomed, flowers are growing again, and the ice storm really is over.  Like any natural disaster, though, it lingers in the mind long after it ends.


This picture shows a tree that slumped over on the back porch area of our roof after the storm.  Later, it did fall completely, taking part of the roof along with it.

Roof After

The Boxer

Excellent song by Simon and Garfunkel that I relate to in an odd way.  It’s not exactly my story, but so much of it resonates with me.

There are days when I just feel tired.  Not in the sense that I didn’t get enough sleep, but in the sense that the weight of my past settles on me and I feel unable to stand with that weight on my shoulders.  It’s hard to explain, but I’m guessing many of the trauma survivors who read this will know exactly what I mean.

‘The Boxer’ talks about someone who leaves home early and survives the streets on his own.  The last few lines are what I relate to so well, and again, I’m sure this will resonate with other trauma survivors as well:

In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade,

And he carries the reminders of ev’ry glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame

‘I am leaving, I am leaving.’

But the fighter still remains

Regardless of the trauma, people have an innate sense of survival.  Even if we have to back out sometimes or take routes we don’t exactly want to take, the fighters within us still remain.