Invisible Diagnoses

There are many of us who carry invisible diagnoses.  Because others cannot visually see them, we are often cast aside.  This is on my mind as I share these vlog thoughts to shed light.

The Most Difficult Part Of Writing Is Writing

My life as a writer is a very solitary existence. Outside of my therapist, brother and sister and my fellow cult survivors on the internet, there is not one who has walked directly in my shoes and understands why writing my post cult experiences are just as daunting as writing Cult Child was.

It is different writing fiction from fact. If I was writing fiction, the ideas would drift from my fingers onto the page and the worst I might deal with is the daunting tasking of actually making myself WRITE.

It looks something like this:

Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.

Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.

Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.

And it continues until….

MAYDAY! MEMORY SHUTDOWN!

This happens when I hit an empass like writing about a body shaming experience, one of the times I was raped as a teenager and more than anything, having to deeply recall conversations and the way that my mother manipulated us in every day small little ways. Her language, her body mannerisms, the things she allowed me to do as a teenager versus the things I couldn’t do and how grossly imbalanced these things were in regards to what actually is and isn’t okay for a teenager.

Yet, this is also a part of my therapy, writing these words, mashing the page, getting them out, shutting down and curling up in a ball wishing I could cry, the anger, the triumphs, the fact that I’m here, writing about it and hoping that other humans even give a shit to pick up the pages.

I am envious of writers who pound out books like grating cheese. Still I manage, juggling my life in the hopes that somehow I can push through this sequel. I write, hoping that when this is finished, I will feel some kind of completion of this phase; that I can purge these emotions enough.

and then I get to finish the fun novels; the series I’ve been working on when I need a break from the emotion.

She Died Today

Exactly eight years ago today she died.  I was at work when I got the phone call.  It was expected.  She guilted and ate herself into diabetes and an early death.  She was only 65.  I used to call her Mom, then Mother, and now I call her by her first name.   Maybe it’s my way of disconnecting in the hopes I can get through the rest of this writing journey to expel the rest of the pain.   I woke up this morning feeling tearful, raw, alone inside my soul, and so I start this journey of being blatantly vulnerable through the fear of mockery and judgment.  I wade through this mist splayed open to this journey of vlogging through The Rise.

Caves of Respite Required

After an encounter last weekend with someone who I perceived to be who they claimed to be, a spiritually evolved human who, in hindsight, was actually too enamored with me, in the same way I became with him, a few days went by and then I fell extremely ill.  I feel this person literally injected me with poison on a spiritual and physical level.

I have been in bed for three days now with a raging flu as if my whole being was sucked out of me by his very touch. Every joint on my body aching, high fever, swollen lymph nodes and a severe headache.

After the encounter with this individual I felt very “high” and heady.  My spirit felt like it was soaring.  Then as I observed and recognized the falsehoods this person presented me with, my body dropped.  It dropped hard as if I was thrown from a cliff.

I thought about the Buddhist book I gifted him which he held in his pocket yet never even read.  I thought about the first question he asked me, which was irrelevant to the current subject, yet triggered me, due to the woman he asked me about was someone who also sucked out my life force.  I had also predicted that the question would be asked of me.

I thought about the direct question I asked of him in regards to a relationship he claimed he was no longer in. He mirrored my language, calling me Otherkin, when he claimed to have not heard that word before me.  The list of contradictions that I didn’t recognize when I was inside of the encounter, goes on and on.

My main hurdle is trusting those I should not trust and not trusting those whom I should.  My eyes feel even more wide open and aware after this adverse encounter, yet I feel even more cautious than ever before

In retrospect I feel I was vampishly bitten and spiritually depleted.  I feel extremely withdrawn and wiped out, concerned for my own health and spiritual safety.  I have blocked this person as best I can from any further attacks including blocking the woman who he seemingly used as a weapon to trigger my emotional well being.  In fact, it would not surprise me at all to find out the two were in on it together including discussing it afterwards.

There’s a deep lesson for me to sift through as I lay here, recovering from yet another night of fighting off fever and body aches.

I am retreating further into a space of aloneness as I cannot afford to continue allowing these malevolent energies to approach me disguised as light. They are dangerous energy and emotion suckers, gaining only for themselves. Wolves in Sheep’s clothing, they present to me as information portals, playing on my interest in knowledge as a tool to draw me in.

Sharpening my senses as I physically recover is my top priority. I realize even after I expressed direct concern about my own sexuality that this person skewed my perspective so that I would give him what he wanted.  I literally could not resist the methodology being used to attack me.

I have being victimized in this way since childhood.  I did not want to have a paranoid mind of mistrust towards other people yet this encounter has resulted in such an intense setback on my spiritual and physical health, I believe it will be a very long time, if ever, before I trust someone to be who they claim to be or to even meet me or be close to me.

I am building deeper onto my defenses so these entities lose the ability of tracking me, attacking my spirit, blocking them on every level I can, knowing that I can still be tracked and attacked.  But I will make it difficult as hell for them.

As I recover from this illness I am flying inside of awareness and realizations more clearly than ever before.

There is a quiet cave of respite waiting my arrival as this will be the last time I open my gates to allow anyone close enough to attack me again.

Blankets

“You need a new blanket!”

I’ve heard this more than a few times in my life. Mostly in my head. Mostly when I look at the ink stains, the worn marks, the hand sewn tears or the little knots in the corners of the material so the stuffing doesn’t fall out and think, “Jeez, Vennie, time for a new blanket already, don’tcha think?”

I wear blankets out. I keep them for years. They become a part of me, and I don’t give a shit about all those little dust mite stories. I have slept on dusty military cots in tents and old mattresses on wooden floors. A few little dust mites don’t scare me.

Sometimes I feel awkward inside of strange sheets, like hotel rooms or someone else’s bed. There’s the crisp leftovers of a thousand strangers creeping the cottony grid, and I need time to infuse my own energy into them. If I travel, there’s at least a little pillow and a blanket of my own in my suitcase. A small one, something familiar that I choose. Something I can curl up and drift into.

For years I kept a quilt my mother made when we lived in the cult. It was hand sewn from dozens of squares cut intricately out of items not deemed worthy enough to make it into the clothing bank. Old shirts and skirts, torn pillow cases and remnants of curtains, bits of material on old bolts and maybe even a few baby blankets taken from children who would no longer be allowed to comfort themselves.

I don’t know what happened to that blanket. I think it got lost somewhere in my teenage years. It carried the energy of my tears and nights hiding beneath it to escape into books and writing, using a flashlight in short spurts because batteries had to last forever.

When I was a baby, I had my own blanket with a silk lining. I can’t say I can close my eyes and see my blanket, but my hands can feel the edges like it was yesterday. My tongue can recall the wrinkled skin of my thumb resting on the roof of my mouth. Self soothing seemed to start from the beginning. I can feel it’s fleece and the tiny threaded stitches holding the silk edging on.

I don’t remember my baby blanket being taken from me, if it was packed into the boxes of our life ripped up by the cult and distributed among strangers or burned in the bonfire with the rest of the precious parts of us they decided were no longer of any use. I don’t know if I cried for it that first night sleeping away from my mother.

So, no, I don’t need to get a new blanket. Not until I decide that I want one because I get to choose now. I will keep loving blankets owned by those who give them away, with their stains and mixed together energy, fears and nights of huddling beneath them. I can wrap them around my body and breathe in the dreams of the humans who curled inside of them before me. I can continue to wash them to shreds and still keep them folded and waiting on my bed.

They tell stories, even imagined ones, nights watching movies and children hiding their heads beneath them in the hopes it would block out the sounds of their parents screaming at each another. They pass on the rose scented mist of love making and swaddled babies laying beneath them on a mother’s bare chest.

These blankets hold heart beats that become a part of me forever.

A List and a No Show

I make notes before I go to therapy sessions. Mainly because my thoughts become jumbled, I begin to go all over the place, switching and moving through moments, talking so fast my therapist’s head looks like a cat following a laser light.

So if I have a guideline for what I want to discuss I can refer to it, allowing me to remember what we want to talk about. It allows me to keep my/our thoughts organized or I will spiral off on tangents then before I know it, our time is over and Dammit! I didn’t get to discuss everything on the list!

The last few weeks have been personally heavy on many different levels. New Memories emerged. Catastrophic Dreams. An emotionally hurtful situation I experienced that I wanted to talk through with her. One thing I adore about her is that she has an incredibly analytical mind, and she doesn’t bullshit me. I can show her facts and she’ll tell it like it tee eye is, even if I don’t come out the winner. She always has the most amazing feedback and suggestions. She’s a great communicator. The list goes on of why she’s the bee’s knees.

My drive to therapy isn’t short, first of all, and since I have an intense OCD about lateness (I fucking hate it) I’m already watching the time. Add on that each trip in and of itself takes a lot of will power to even get my ass into the car and go.

I really do not like sitting in waiting rooms in general, much less with TV’s blasting medical advice and humans’ energy sitting all around me. It’s not the same as the average arena with the general population. No. I am an Empath sitting in a space filled with people in all levels of emotional pain.

I can feel all of it, see all of it, and I wear headphones to both block it and keep anyone from talking to me. I also wait in my car until right before my appointment so by the time I check in, I’m headed straight to her office.

This week I really needed to just dump it all out on her. I was really looking forward to my session, my list was ready and I’d even brought some factual evidence from a situation for her to look through and give me feedback on how to handle it, etc.

I finally get there, check in, and the receptionist says, “Oh, didn’t they call you? She went home sick today.”

Fuck… No… They didn’t call me. FUCK! What the FUCK! I drove all the way out here, did my usual emotional prepping, and I have a list! A GOTTAMN LIST that needs to be discussed!

“No.” I replied. “No phone call.”

Then the receptionist did something that just almost set me off due to my already flustered state of being. Luckily, I have a good handle on critically thinking and assessing so in the aftermath I just accepted that she probably didn’t know any better.

“Well, [enter another therapist’s name here] is available. Would you like to see her?”

Me: “Does she know anything about my background?”

Receptionist silence.

Me: “Exactly. It would take the whole hour and a half explaining my history to Ms. Temporary Therapist Who Knows Nothing About Me, and then I’d never even get to my list.”

Receptionist stare. Mind read.

“Damn. This chick brings a list.”

Me: “Touché.”

Receptionist: “I’m really sorry no one called you.”

Me, rubbing the index card upon which I write my list, softly between my left thumb and forefinger much like the silk lining of the blanket I had as a baby. Self soothing comes in many forms.

“It’s cool. Let’s re-schedule.” I say, softening inside.

Deep breaths. Being in the moment. Letting it all pass. No emotional catastrophes today.

But it rather feels like being stood up on a date, like getting all gussied up and gorgeous just to get a phone call ten minutes before, canceling or worst yet, sitting at the restaurant waiting on a no show.

And I’m just… Left with this damn list until next time.

the beat goes on.