TMI and trigger warning for this post.

I am scared to sleep.  The house is quiet – this is a good and a bad thing.  Quiet is peaceful, filling, reassuring; yet ominous, lonely, and grim.  Lights are blazing in the house, but my heart is full of dread, my chest is heavy, my breath tight.  My bed upstairs is nothing like that one.  It is the same size, yes, but it has different bedding, different frame, different mattress, different dogs.  The body that lies in it is older, fatter, unappealing to him.  In my brain though, my body is the same.  I am still susceptible.  I still can’t move or refuse when he pins me.  I am trapped, held; partially by his weight, but mostly by my dread.  It is not my choice.  He can do as he likes – I am his wife.  It does not matter whether I consent.  My fear and sadness are of no consequence.

He is not here.  Different room, different house, different town, different name.  Yet he haunts me.  Sits on my chest.  Shoves his fingers in my hole. Shoves himself down my mouth.  Shoves himself into me, hitting my cervix, searing pain.  I cannot tell if he does not care or if he likes it.  Either way, he continues – my feelings and desires are of no consequence.  I do not know when he will piss on me while I am sleeping.  I have almost passed the fear of waking in his stinking wet and not being allowed to clean myself or the bed until morning.

As I dream of my own little farm, my own escape, I am not clear how much is refuge for me, and how much is running from him.  He is in my brain, my body – he follows, and I want to keep running until he loses his grip.  His hold is unpredictable.  He grabs one moment, pins me down, and lurks the next – leaving me wondering when he will next appear.  I do not want him following me any more.  He sullies my safe places and insures that fear lingers.

My parents underline things with their fingers.  They point and prod, touching tender places and revealing once again that I will not be peaceful, safe, or loved.  I am the foolish outcast.  The kid that made her say, “Wait until your father gets home! and Why can’t you be more like your sister?”  The kid that still does not make the right decisions.  The kid who chooses the wrong things.  The woman who has drawn such careful boundaries gets stung the moment she peeps through them.  Foolish.

That bed looms.  No matter it is not the same; sleep puts me at all the same disadvantages it always did.  Succumb to sleep and know not when he will come home, slam the car door, open the front door.  What will he do this night?

I wish to not be haunted.   If I believe I am not haunted, I am at risk of his catching me off-guard.  Happiness is a fleeting thing, a thing that only allows more shock when the haunting rises.  He still inhabits me, and knows exactly when to strike.  His coils slither in me, making desire messy.  I yearn, but when I try to pleasure myself, it is never pleasure.  It is some of it goodish, and some punishment.  Sometimes I am mean.  I can’t let go – I’ve never felt release.

I want to know what it is to not be inhabited.  I want out.

I have updates, but they’ll wait for now.

I just watched “Captain Fantastic.”  Several friends had recommended this film to me and thought I would enjoy it.  I did, some… but mostly I felt sad and angry. The movie touched a number of very tender spots; spots that are maybe best left alone.

The northwest is my place. I didn’t really know anything about the setting of the movie, but recognized it at once.  The lush green of the towering trees next to rivers and stark mountains, yes. The quiet, yes. The isolation, yes. My dream, starting in elementary school sometime, was to live on the side of one of the Cascade Mountains in a cabin deep in the woods, reached only by foot or by horse. I designed the cabin, knew exactly how it and my surroundings would appear. Numerous animals (especially dogs) would be my companions, and only dear and occasional friends were allowed to know my location for visits. Thirty-some years later, that hasn’t changed much.

In many ways I am still that kid. I dream hard and still identify strongly with forests, animals, rustic living, and simplicity. What has changed is knowledge about myself. Isolation draws me, but it likely would not offer continual solace. I am too prone to depression, to unhealthy thinking, to sometimes destructive coping methods when I am not taking medication and or under care. People do matter to me, even though that makes me feel uncomfortably vulnerable. My dream changed over the years mainly to include children and/or a partner. I did parent for a while, but none of the children were able to stay. I have not found my partner.

Being near joyful families of any type is something I like, and something that is often deeply painful. I wanted that. I want that. That movie had a lot of sad, but it had a parent with healthy kids living in the wilderness, then on a homestead. They were strong and agile and grounded and themselves. They had a parent, who, however misguided, loved and supported them each as individuals. They were awake and outside and learning.

The mother in this story died due to complications of mental illness. She had wanted to be in the woods with her family, wanted the forest to help her heal. I’ve wanted that. I do want that. I believe nature has that power and I know that it is not always enough. That makes me angry. I want it to be enough. I want to retreat with my animals into the quiet woods and heal in my way, in the quiet, in the forest, living simply. (I do know living simply is not living easily.) I do not want to be on meds the rest of my life. I am actively working toward healing and building my skills, but it will never likely be enough for me to wisely live without human companionship.

I worked to be in the space to acknowledge my desire and need for people in my life. That was hard. I have (mainly chosen) family, and I love them. I do not have kids or a partner. I am not looking to find my identity or my safety or any dependence on immediate family, but I do desire them.  They are not here.

Other dreams may partially fill those desires, someday. That movie, though fictional, cut way too close to home.

Random comments heard since the Orlando shooting:

“Mental illness is the problem, not guns.”

“Only someone who is crazy/mentally ill does stuff like that.”

“If we can keep crazy people away from guns, things like this won’t happen.”

Where is the line drawn? I realize many statistics support these statements; a disproportionate number of murderers are diagnosed with mental illness. My thoughts on this are not yet clear, but I decided to write as I think about it, rather than wait ’til I have things all figured out. (Read = never.)

What rankles me here is that these comments imply folks with mental/brain differences are the true, big problem in our country. We are the ones who harm and scare others, who complete mass killings, who ruin other people’s lives. If we could be fixed or eliminated, the implication is that violence would largely cease to exist.

Which comes first, the chicken or the egg? Many, many people in this country harbor heavy hate toward other groups of people. They threaten others, poison their animals, rally others to scare folks, and generally cause so much trouble that the person who is so different and threatening moves away. Who is really dangerous in these situations? How is it a person with mental illness/brain differences may talk to themselves or pull out chunks of hair or start to panic and yell when overwhelmed are the problem? We deal with things differently, yes. Some of us need help and medication to help us track reality enough to function in this world. Some of us have really impulsive actions that are not controllable. Most of us are not killers.

Hatred, fear, and the need for power cause violence. If a ‘regular’ person harms someone else because they are different, it might be a hate crime that causes the killer to be labeled mentally ill. If a ‘regular’ person has very strong opinions on different groups of people, they are called Republicans, Democrats, religious, adhering to local culture, or politicians. I would wager a bet that a bunch of these folks would be labeled mentally ill if they were to be examined and diagnosed. Where is the line between strong feelings accepted by society and strong feelings that scare society because of how they are expressed?

Gun availability is a problem. I don’t advocate taking everyone’s guns. I do think perhaps classes, training, and testing prior to gun ownership might help to identify people who cannot deal with guns safely. It is not just those who have brain differences/mental illness. It is any of the people above who might be recognized as not able to make consistent, reasonable decisions about gun use. It’s true some of us struggle with impulsive actions and should not own a gun. It is also true many people with very strong fear/hatred opinions should not own guns.

Oh, this is not helping to clarify my thoughts as I’d hoped. I will keep working on it. Any thoughtful comments are appreciated.

Those of us with mental differences often do need more help and support than is available in this country. Our brains are different. Sometimes that is very workable; sometimes we need more support and/or medication. We are not, however, the base of all evil and violence in this country.

Well, it’s been almost a year.  I’m still around.  🙂  I broke my back coming off a friend’s horse in March, and was laid up — well, not laid up for long,  just slowed down — for a while. (Not the horse’s fault – it was a freak thing.) I’m healed up, and needing to write again.  Perhaps it’s the dark.

I wrote for a while last night, and I’ll share some of it here.  When emotions are high and I’m trying hard to cope, I allow myself to skip the English teacher rules and just get things down on paper.

i am scared. sometimes i get scared and i don’t know why and it is like deep, dark dread is creeping into me.  i know it can be triggers of which i am not aware, but that doesn’t really help much in the moment. i am safe and dry, in my house, with my animals, and yet i feel as if something terrifying is about to happen.  it feels like this happens all the time, though i know it doesn’t.  i think.  i want to cheer up, put on music, take a shower, do something that would help, but everything seems like too much.  i don’t want to move from this chair.  i don’t want to breathe much or make even the noise that my typing makes.  you know shows where a terrified person is hiding in the closet, watching the killer getting closer and closer?  like that.  i fear i am exaggerating, but i don’t think i am.  

there is fire in the stove.  there is laundry on the rack.  i see dogs sleeping and sister asleep on the blue chair nearby.  there is water in my jar.  i have grading to do, i wanted to do, and now i can’t think.  the fan came on for the stove.  juno stood up because someone is coming home.  i am struggley and don’t want to talk.  i tried a friend to see if i could come over for a bit or talk, but she is out of town and at work and can’t talk.

then i am afraid i am lying. my housemate came home – she had finished her last final at western.  she is done with school. i offered to feed her dinner as celebration, and got that done and ate with her and managed to be kinda cheery.  then i ran a quick errand to the store.  i said thank you to the clerk.  i think i was still scared during that but now i don’t know.  i wish i could know what was true.

Trusting my thoughts and emotions is a regular battle. I lived for a long time being accused of faking things, and both the voice and the doubt haunt me still.  It is often difficult for me to know what to believe about what I am thinking.  I’m not sure how to explain. Perhaps it is something like living with hallucinations — though I’ve not had to deal with that. There’s an awareness that some things are real and valid, and others are not, but distinguishing them is often impossible. I don’t know if I am stepping onto a frozen lake or a piece of asphalt.  Will I fall through? Will I just walk down the street? Do I need to fear that step and not take it? I don’t know. I end up doubting myself often and feeling like a fraud.

There is more to say, but work will come early tomorrow, and I will be there. I need to lie down in the night.