Friendship

One of my closest and dearest friends made the following statement, today: "It's always disappointing when you realize a 'friend' isn't a friend at all..."

 

I didn't put much thought into my response back, other than what my own experience has been: "Whomever they are, they clearly weren't worthy of your gifts.  Miss the person that you thought they were, but be glad to have discovered their true colors before you invested more time and energy into the relationship.  Be glad they are gone and move forward knowing that they never deserved a friend as true as you.  While it sucks, it seems that the absence of such people opens the door to new and better ones.  Their loss, sweetie."

 

Stopping and thinking about it, there are more than a few times that I wish I could have sent this message, back in time, to myself.  Even as I look around me now, I wish the message could so easily be taken without having the pain attached.  It is so difficult to let some of those people go.  Even knowing that they were never truly the people that I thought they were, I miss the façade of whom I thought that they were.  I don't know which is worse, missing them or knowing that they never truly were the person that I thought them to be. 

Another Good Quote

"I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched." ~Edgar Allen Poe~

Thought for the Day

"I am not what has happened to me, but what I choose to become." ~Carl Jung~

PTSD and Psychiatric Service Dogs

Veterans, PTSD and Psychiatric Service Dogs  

I know that I have shared other posts about my Rottweiler, but I am not sure that people even have an inkling regarding how much she helped me through the first year that followed the incidents with the PFA-ex, with my father and with my father's special "police arrangement" that he made for me.  I have had many situations that have resulted in PTS throughout my entire life--however, the 4/22/10 incident was probably one of the most difficult simply due to the number of people in my life that I lost in one fail swoop.

 

I lived through a lot of terror and heartbreak when living with the PFA-ex.  During the past three years, he has since had other PFAs placed upon him from other women he has dated.  Apparently, he even shot a hole in his own house during an argument with one of his latest girlfriends (no PFAs from that one, oddly enough).  He regularly hurt my pets and terrorized us with guns and shootings (no, I am not anti-gun, as a result--instead, it was encouragement to renew my protection permit).  I remember one time, he got angry at my dog and broke a metal pole over her back.  His sister, nephew and I spent hours searching for her, not knowing whether he had killed her or not.   Other times, he would get angry, throw her in the trunk of his car with his tools and drive erratically on back roads.  One of my ferrets had her eyes swollen shut for several days and the entire upper half of her body swollen because he either bit her or hit her (he claimed that he didn't remember exactly what he had done, when questioned the next day).  Before you judge me, realize that these things began after I had moved in with him (we had dated over a year before I moved in) and I was already trapped.  Either way,  I was scared while we lived together and even more terrified after I moved out.

 

I tried to stay on friendly terms after I left because I was frightened of him and also because truly, I did still care about him and didn't want to be emotionally hurting him in the manners that he had convinced me that I was.  But as the situation grew uglier and his acts progressively became more and more problematic--it did reach a point that I struggled with leaving my house.  At least at home, I could lock the door and I had some semblance of safety.  I didn't think that my Rottweiler would protect me from him since she had also dealt with his abuse since being a puppy and she was equally afraid of him.  I had some glimmer of hope, however, after my father came to my house and she made it clear that if he touched me, she would touch him, as well.

 

After the incident when the police came and took me from my own property, my terror was so immense that I was not capable of leaving my house.  Between my physical injuries and the emotional damage done, I stayed in bed for weeks, getting up only to let my dog, Harrnh, out.  Even then, in my own yard, I kept my cell phone with me and generally made sure that I was on the phone with someone that would be able to help me if my father, the police or the PFA-ex tried to do anything to me while outside with her.  The emotional damage of being forcefully taken from your own property when convinced that it couldn't happen due to your civil rights isn't something that I can even begin to describe.  I have never been fond of police due to my upbringing and having a father in law enforcement--been manhandled by two of them when you didn't do anything wrong, have no idea why they are taking you and you have just spent an emotionally exhausting day securing a PFA against your ex, while your father makes threats at you throughout the day?  More than I could emotionally deal with.  Call me weak; state how you wouldn't have had any issues; regardless--it took a toll on me, emotionally and physically, that almost destroyed me.

 

As the weeks wore on, I found out that many family members that I loved and trusted were part of this "intervention."  My youngest brother, whom was my world and the person that I loved most on this planet.  His wife, whom I had thought of as one of my best friends and that I would have done anything for.  A cousin that I trusted and counted on--his wife, that I had viewed as a little sister.  An aunt that I had always viewed as a mother-figure.  My father's wife, whom I thought of as a friend, even though she had shafted me over and over, again.  And of course, my father.  The only man that I ever cared what he thought of me, the one that I had spent my entire life attempting to gain his love and approval.  People that I loved, people that I trusted, people that I always thought would be there for me.  I have always had difficulties with trust.  This was more than I could bear.

 

When my brother called me to see if I was admitted to the hospital or not (I found out later that our father made him call--at the time, I still believed that he cared)--I told him what our dad did--coming to my house and shaking me, accusing me of being on meth, having the police take me--my brother's response?  "Dad wouldn't accuse you of being on meth.  If I see you, I am going to shake the shit out of you, too."  That was the ending to my day on 4/22/10--knowing that the most important person in my life, next to my mother, hated me.  Over the next year, I was banned from seeing my nephews and the family invited the PFA-ex to family functions and events, in my place. 

 

I realize that it is difficult for an outsider to grasp the pain I was living through.  My faith shattered.  My trust broken.  Having been terrorized by my ex, my father, and the police.  Who is safe?  Who is good?  Who do you turn to for help?  I don't know that I ever felt more alone or terrified of the world around me.  My safety?  My Rottweiler.  She went everywhere with me during that time.  Even though she was even more terrified of the world than I was, together, we struggled forward.  I remember calling the credit union, the post office and other local establishments and explaining that I was unable to enter those places without her and that I needed her to feel safe.  I had always been an exceedingly independent person until my thirty-sixth year.  After those events, I couldn't even go to the grocery store by myself.  My dog literally saved my life.  She forced me to get out of bed and function.  She was my protection when faced with the outside world.  Inside, she helped me sleep, even if only for a few blessed hours at a time, because I knew that she had my back.  Inside, she soaked up my tears and helped me feel even the tiniest bit loved.  My world, outside of her, was too fragmented for me to function.

 

I received a lot of flack when I spent several thousand dollars to have surgery performed on her hind leg.  Many people, even other animal lovers, told me to have her put down, that no animal was worth going into the poorhouse for.  How irresponsible would that have been when she saved me?  How could I not invest in her after all she had unknowingly done for me? 

 

When I see articles regarding Veterans, PTSD and Psychiatric Service Dogs, it is difficult for me to not get excited.  To not cry.  To feel hope.  To understand and hope that the awareness spreads.  To desire that individuals everywhere understand the difference these dogs can make; that they are helpers.  Helpers in a world now fraught with struggles the average civilian cannot comprehend.  The world is hard enough; for those of us with PTSD, functioning as we once did is not a reality.  PTSD is debilitating beyond what I can even begin to explain, but hopefully, as word spreads, service dogs will become a more accepted and understood part of our society.  Hopefully other survivors' lives can begin to be mended in a manner that no other psychiatric assistance can remotely touch to the same degree.  Safety, in an unsafe world.  Is there a better therapy?  I can't imagine it.

Indeed.

"It's easier to fool people than to convince them that they have been fooled." ~Mark Twain~

 

I feel like with this quote, I can pack it up and say blog over.  Sadly, it never even occurred to me that for my father to admit that he may have been wrong, in 2010, goes against the grain more than I imagined.  I know he isn't capable of being wrong--forty years of knowing him has taught me that.  I know he isn't able to say that he is sorry--for that to happen, he would have to feel remorse.  To feel remorse, he would have to actually recognize that maybe he was wrong--see the dilemma within?  But for him to say that maybe he was scammed and fell for a whole pack of lies?  Well, that goes against absolutely everything.  Let's put this in perspective:

He would have to admit that he fell for PFA-ex's sob story.  That he was only trying to watch out for me and be there for me, but my drug-crazed life-style was making me immune to the gifts of his love.  He would have to admit that he misjudged a scofflaw's character and fell for the ruse.  There is a certain issue of vanity and pride that prevents this from ever happening.

He would have to admit that his wife steered him astray.  Even if it had been unintentional on her part, she is an extension of himself and infallible, as well.  This, again, leads back to him questioning himself.

He would have to admit that other family members may have also bamboozled him.  Did I mention that he is unable to believe that he is capable of being hoodwinked?

He would have to admit that he called one of his prior, respected, close friends (an ex-state police officer, my defender through the PFA process) a liar and believed that he was wrapped up in drugs, as well.  This, again, requires an apology.

He would have to admit that the judge overseeing the PFA process was right--that I wasn't hurting anyone (myself included) and that to persecute me, in addition to what I was already being subjected to, would be inhumane.

That's just a whole lot of admitting he played the fool.  Isn't it easier to ignore the concrete evidence showing that he was wrong and just say that somehow I got away with convincing the hospital staff of my innocence and managed to somehow beat the drug tests, blood tests and urine tests?  The master mind that I am--such an evil genius--my witchcraft at full work. 

But that is what he has always believed, of course.  It makes it easier to fall for the lies when you already expect the worst of someone. 

It is a heady mix of pride, arrogance, and being played--falling for it--and not knowing how to save face.  Instead of admitting that he was fooled; instead of self-analysis; instead of admitting that he is human and not perfect--instead, let us continue to ruin a relationship with someone that loves you despite being aware of all of these traits.  Let us continue to attempt to convince her that she was indeed on drugs, that she was indeed crazy; that she just doesn't remember the details of her own life.  Yes, that certainly makes more sense. 

What a sad, lonely existence it must be.

Just Another Headline

Vigil/Rally to be held for Oil City woman fatally shot by police 



"Recently Marilyn Peterson, a physically disabled, legally blind 68 year old woman that required the use of a walker and a lift chair to navigate her own home, was shot dead by the Oil City Police Department after they responded to a call to her home at the behest of her son."

 

I'm not sure if anyone else has been following this one.  As someone that has dealt with excessive force from the police (thankfully, I didn't resist or fight back)--this one, of course, caught my eye...

When Forgiving Isn't the Issue

I struggle with recognizing that my father is genuinely confused as to why he is no longer a part of my life.  He believes that I just can't accept that he loves me; that I am bitter; that I am hateful; that he is the victim--a target of my misdirected anger.

 

His perception, regarding the events of April 2010, is that I was on drugs; starving myself; plotting the death of hundreds of people (including myself for the grand finale); casting satanic rituals (as I prayed to God and talked to angels); suffering from paranoid hallucinations (brought on by events from nearly twenty years ago); wrongly accusing my ex-boyfriend of harassment (a stellar young man that I was emotionally tormenting by refusing to remain in a relationship with) and raising vicious animals that I intended to turn loose upon unsuspecting, innocent victims as I unleashed the furies of Hell upon those that "have done me wrong in life"--apparently I even wrote a letter stating that I was going to kill all of these people and had already physically harmed some of them, as well.  I was in dire need of intervention; he was the man to do it.  It's not funny.  That is the essential summary of the 302 report he filled out in an attempt to have me committed--this is what the police officers that came to take me away were told. 

 

More so, this is what my father genuinely believes happened.  He believes that he stepped in and saved my life; that I had placed myself on a meth-strewn path of destruction and that he swooped in saving the day.  It doesn't matter that no drugs were found on my person or in my system, that my BMI was in the normal range, that blood tests also indicated that I was not starving myself, that there never was a letter, that I hadn't made threats of harm against myself or anyone else, or that I was granted a three-year PFA (Protection From Abuse) against the ex-boyfriend that very same day (or that my father was there to support him).  It doesn't even matter that while the police delivered me to the hospital, the hospital released me that very same day. It doesn't matter that I was subjected to blood tests, urine tests, my personal items were searched (uncovering a handkerchief, a wooden paddle, three cigarette butts, and a tampon) or that I passed all of the sanity tests given.  No, none of these things prove my innocence.  Why?  Because my father is never wrong. 

 

To this day, he believes that he saved my life and hundreds, if not thousands of other lives, by taking the steps that he did.  I was just "so far gone" in my life of debauchery and evil  that I don't remember any of it properly.  I believe him, in that, this is his reality of the events.  He is an unsung hero.  Instead of being grateful and thanking him, I have cruelly cast him out of my life.  I know this because I have since attempted to talk to him, I have attempted to make amends, but until I admit that the above reality--his reality--is the truth of the situation, I am just being hateful and bitter.

 

Oddly enough, when my brother brought his fiancée-to-be home to meet the family in September of 2012, a pattern was beginning to emerge. 

 

My father, at that time, had targeted one of his closest friends (and a prominent member of the community) as being about to go on a homicidal/suicidal rampage.  My brother bought this story, as well and tried to relay it to me.  According to our father, his friend was going to kill his family and then himself--he was now isolating himself from my father and refusing to talk to him--further signs of the danger and horror soon to happen.  When I suggested that maybe the fellow didn't appreciate our father's "intervention" and maybe THAT was the reason for avoiding him (much as I had attempted to do when I was being accused of being on drugs--when I knew full well that I didn't even smoke pot)--I received a lecture about how he (through the military) and my father (by being a law enforcer) received intensive trainings regarding the "warning signs" and our father's friend had them all.  It was a heated debate for quite some time and ended with my brother stating that many people watch so much television that they begin to think that is how real life should be/is and they may create a reality surrounding them to match what they see on TV.  He was willing to accept that MAYBE our father had developed a hero complex of sorts and watched too much television--but our father's friend was still potentially a loose cannon.  As far as I know, he, his wife, and children are still alive and well.

 

When my brother came home in May, of this year, he discovered a bunch of mock video cameras that my father and his wife were planning to install around the perimeters of their house.  An eleven p.m. curfew was in place and if my brother did not arrive back to their home before the curfew, he was locked out and could sleep in his vehicle or go elsewhere.  The reason?  Their drug-crazed neighbors, with their aggressive Pit Bulls and homicidal teenagers.  Apparently, my stepmother tried to call and complain about some of the neighborhood Pit Bulls that had chains almost long enough for them to reach the road and potentially attack people.  When nothing was done, she and my father assembled some type of cage around their porch so that they can still sit out there safely while being protected from the neighborhood Pit Bulls.  Of course, the cage wouldn't protect them from their drug-crazed neighbors and their hoodlum teenagers that will be the next perpetrators of either a school shooting or some mass killing--hence the cameras and curfews.

 

April 2010--me. 

September 2012--one of my father's closest (and only) friends.

2013--their neighbors.  

A pattern?  I think even my brother is beginning to see it.

 

And this is where I begin to have issues.  As I see it, my father has some delusional, mental health issues.  He retired from law enforcement in April of 2012--something he lived, breathed, and extensively devoted his life to for thirty odd years.  I won't argue with my brother that they (my father and his wife--whom is an avid "watch-the world-hidden-behind-the-curtain" type and a story for another day) watch too much television and are convinced that their reality should be so dramatic and colorful.  The people in their lives could in no way just be normal people attempting to live their lives but are instead crazed, depraved, bloodthirsty killers, who are plagued by insanity and prey on family and neighbors alike (perhaps after consuming water shipped in from Ogden Marsh). 

 

This is their reality.  For my father, I see it as a combination between law enforcer mentality ("all people are criminals, most just haven't been caught yet"), a now unfulfilled hero complex (he is no longer protecting the world from evil on a daily basis) and sheer boredom (extreme workaholic to retiree--I never thought I would see the day).  His wife?  Hells, I remember the early days when my brother still lived at home and wasn't allowed to talk to me because I had programmed him to destroy her.  One time, it was due to him leaving a soda can on the coffee table--but he did this because of some telepathic hold that I had over him, commanding him to place the soda can there--all part of my evil plot to ruin her life and thanks to my evil, super powers.  That was in the late 1990's.  For years, my father would get on me about these plots and how I needed to accept her and their marriage.  Yeah, okay...  But again, another day.

 

I remember when House of Pain's "Jump Around" was released in 1992 and my father insisted that it had subliminal messages that told people to go out and kill each other.  At the time, I thought it was his overly dramatic way of mentioning that he didn't care for the song, found it annoying and wanted me to change the channel.  Looking back, it is possible that he really believed people killed each other because of the song.  All it took was adding his wife's flavor of crazy to his--BOOM!!! Fear of everyone and everything. 

 

I don't want to get into a debate over the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman incident--but do I see my father being a George Zimmerman?  Does he have a full arsenal at his disposal?  You better believe it.  Does he believe that everyone is a criminal, ready to go on a killing spree and he needs to be the hero?  You better believe it.  Would he shoot one of his homicidal neighbors if he caught them on his property?  You better believe it.  The tragedy?  That he didn't purchase authentic video cameras to capture any such events so that they can be used as court evidence.  He's the ticking time-bomb; not the world around him.

 

I love my father.  I even still love his wife, despite all of the asinine insinuations and direct accusations against me over the years.   It is easier to forgive someone when recognizing that they are mentally ill and that they aren't simply trying to ruin your life with slander, but that they are living in a reality that doesn't permit them to see the world in the same way that others do.  But does this permit them a ticket back into my life?  I think not. 

 

I spent forty years attempting to gain my father's approval.  Bachelor's Degree, nothing.  Graduate School, nothing.  Third in command at my agency, an awesome salary, my own home, independence, self-sufficiency?  Clearly, a meth addict and preparing for a murderous rampage. 

 

No, I can accept his reality.  I can accept that he believes every word of his version as truth.  I  can accept that he cannot see how his version changes multiple times because the world's reality didn't jive with his portrayal of the situation.  I can accept all of that.  I can forgive him.  I told him as much the day that he came to my house accusing me of being on meth. 

 

Shall I spend the next forty years of my life attempting to gain his love and approval?  Shall I spend it trying to show him that I am not the demon he has always seen me to be?  Shall I risk again arousing his "protect and save" efforts through police, handcuffs, and threats that if I don't abide him that I will be sorry?  As I told him then, "Until you SEE me, until you HEAR me, you cannot be a part of my life."  I tried.  I have tried forwards, backwards, sideways and doubled-over for the majority of my life.  I have tried. Over. And over. And over.

 

I struggle with recognizing that my father is genuinely confused as to why he is no longer a part of my life.  I understand that he believes that I simply cannot accept that he loves me; that I am bitter; that I am hateful; that he is the victim--a target of my misdirected anger.  But I also accept that he sees the world through very different eyes than mine.  I accept that having him in my life is toxic, on all levels.  I accept that while forgiving him, allowing him back into my life opens the door to mental and emotional abuse that I am no longer willing to tolerate; all with hopes that, some day, his love may come with it.

District Court Sunshine

Most of you know that the PFA with my ex ended April 22, 2013.  My current fiancé is pretty much the only one that is aware that the same type of stuff started happening here again about two weeks before the PFA ended and continued until about a month ago.  It was the same type of incidents as before--little stuff that I would never be able to prove--enough to make me look crazy if I went to the police or told anyone about it.   The fiancé knows simply because he lives here, too and he was the one to discover some of the incidents.  Now I know why it ended as suddenly as it started again.

 

There was one tiny paragraph in last night's paper stating that my PFA ex was "charged with making a materially false written statement under penalty. Bail was set at $5000, unsecured."   Since his lies were the root of many of the reasons that I am still alienated from my family and since that entire relationship was built on lies--it was just kind of funny to sit back and say "Hmmm, well what do you think about that???"  Every now and then, when karma's eyes turn and catch something it missed--everyone gets a peek.  Yesterday was one of those days.  The truth can only stay contained for so long.  I have to admit, rotten as it is, there is a part of me that is glad it was in the newspaper, there for the world to see.

 

The person that contacted me letting me know about the contents in the newspaper mentioned that I should "cut out that court report and rub it in someone's face."  Unfortunately, that "someone" has changed their story, over and over, as well.  While I was in the midst of the mess and trying to secure the PFA, my father kept insisting that "______ wouldn't do those things--he's a good guy" and told family members that he knew I was the one lying because "I was and always had been a liar."  Later, his story changed to: he was "supporting me through the entire PFA hearing, I was just too far gone to realize it"  and that he "never had any doubts that _______ was bad for me."  Funny how that works--all part of saving the day, I guess.  Being the hero has always been a priority for him--in fact, choosing to be ______'s hero through the PFA process was a huge part of what led to our current alienation.

Not to mention that my father should also have been charged with "making a materially false written statement under penalty" with regards to my 302 papers.  I should have known that things weren't right and run when my father told me that ________ was my first boyfriend that he had ever approved of.  Peas in a pod, that's for sure.  And well, even if no one else has noted the flavor of crazy my father is, my youngest brother is at least starting to see it.  The rest of the world and my family may see my father as an upstanding pillar of the community--holder of truth and justice--but I think the veil is wearing thin, there as well.  Hell, he has sixty plus years of this crap behind him--karma can't be that blind.  Can it?

At any rate, ______'s lying finally caught up to him.  It's funny, the surest way to know he was lying during the relationship was when he would swear on his father's grave--every single time--lying.  Not that there weren't a heap of other lies and deceptions, the "father's grave" ones were always just a dead give away (no pun intended).  And that little district court paragraph also explains why the incidents here ended when they did.  I am sure that whatever mess he has gotten himself into, this time, was weighing on him enough that even the chance of getting caught messing around here was no longer worth whatever satisfaction he was getting from it.  It is nice to know that, at least for a little while, I can rest knowing that things should be quiet.

Of Beauty

When I lived in Ridgway, there was a man there that suffered from alopecia universalis.  As a result, he had no body hair, whatsoever.  No eyelashes, no eyebrows, bald; not a hair to be seen anywhere on his body.  He frequently ordered food where I worked and admittedly, I was quite attracted to him.  I have always been drawn to the Mr.Clean look; but even more so, to say that I loath body hair is putting it mildly.  An extreme aversion to body hair is more apt. 

 

I know people whispered about his affliction and deemed him as an oddity.  It was clearly something that he was self-conscious of, as well.   I never told him how I felt due to being in a relationship during that period of my life and well, there was that factor of him being 40ish and me being in my early 20's.  I still regret not letting him know that, in some eyes, he was beautiful--even though it was a touchy topic.  I was also extremely shy then and even more awkward around anyone that I was attracted to.  Come to think of it, that really hasn't changed...

I remember my shock upon hearing of his suicide.   Still to this day, just as someone that waited on him and had the occasional brief exchange of pleasantries, I wonder, could my words have made a difference?  I still think about him sometimes and about his disorder.  What he and society viewed as a flaw, made him perfect in my eyes.

It's odd, when I look at others that I have been attracted to through life--some morbidly obese, some unattractive by standards the media has defined--attraction is such a peculiar concept.   I have never been able to place a label on what I find attractive--physically or spiritually.  It is just there--without rhyme or reason.  They say that there is someone out there for everyone.  Someone that will find you beautiful despite the flaws.  I have to say that there is truth in this.  I am living, breathing proof and if I were ever to present a line-up of individuals that I have majorly crushed on--people would probably be shocked. 

I find it difficult to believe that I am the only one out there that has no faith in the media's standards; no faith in what society feels is attractive.  Mayhaps though, there are individuals out there that I have thought were drop-dead gorgeous--that have had no clue and would find it difficult to believe that anyone could ever be interested in them or be attracted to them.  Yet, here we are.  Perhaps I should note, as well--I am strictly speaking of physical attraction.  To find these individuals beautiful inside, as well--simply a deal clincher. 

Yes, I am sure of it.  There is always someone for everyone.  One person's flaw is sometimes their most beautiful aspect, in the eyes of another.  Our differences make us beautiful and I think sometimes we forget this in the world colored all one flavor. 

100th Posting

So here I am.  My 100th post on this blog.  Not even 1/3 the amount of postings that I have had in other blogs and certainly not as faithfully written in--but this one has been an especially healing journey.  I am not sure, at times, how I feel about sharing such a personal journey with the online world, but I guess since I have shared this story with other victims of domestic violence and have spoken to roomfuls of strangers regarding the content within, it really makes little difference. 

 

Three years later, I am still grasping at understanding and healing.  While I am much stronger now emotionally, I still bear physical scars from that day and still remain alienated from the majority of my family.  I still struggle with anger.   I still struggle with tears when counting back over the "loved ones" that I have lost as a result of that piece of my life.  Some days I think that I am a stronger, more independent person as a result of those events.  Other days, I wonder if I will ever recover.

 

I suppose it seems odd to most that know me in real life--I am a very private person and will recoil from friends that share my life without my permission--yet, here we are.  How does that work?  Honestly, I don't have an answer for that.  Perhaps it is the belief that this blog is undiscovered, unread.  Perhaps it is to share my journey in hopes that others struggling will find some sense in their madness.  While mostly this is my place for venting and soul-searching that really should be done in private, I share it because for all of my introverted tendencies, I have still always, truly, been an open book. 

10 Tips For Understanding Someone With PTSD

A close friend shared this one with me: 10 Tips For Understanding Someone With PTSD 

 

As someone that has PTSD (many times over, from many life events), I have struggled greatly in my relationships with others.  This is one of the best lists that I have seen, to date and I felt that it was worthy of sharing.  Whether you are suffering from PTSD or you have a loved one affected, please take the time to read it.

WWTDLD?

I've thought a bit about yesterday's post--I realize that was a pouring out of nastiness, on my end.  I think maybe I just reached that bit where I was pushed over the edge.  One thing that will surely push me out of a relationship--with anyone, be it friend, family or partner--is having my life put on display.  I hate fighting in public. I have a low tolerance for knowing that if someone has an issue with me that they will share it with everyone they know and then attempt to still call me their friend.  And I struggle when knowing that I can't trust someone.  I guess perhaps the friendship that I wrote about yesterday was similar to walking through a field filled with landmines--it was only a matter of time until it blew up in my face.  How does that saying go? "The one that gossips to you, will gossip about you?"  Anyhoo, you get the point.

Clearly, I pulled the post.  Despite what she has done, I still didn't feel right leaving it posted for the world to see.  It was the equivalent of the "angry letter" that you write but never send.  I feel better today for having removed it from my shoulders and heart, yet I still love her enough not to post it.  Sick, huh?  Yeah, this is why I tend to eat a lot of sand.  I still somehow manage to care about and love those that kick me when I am down, that kick sand in my face and basically walk all over me.  Not good traits, not good for survival, but it is who I am and who I have always been.  For those that wonder why we stay in abusive relationships--I sometimes think it is because we love too much, because we forgive our enemies, and because we have a natural tendency to see the wounded and wish to help--blind we are, indeed.

FTP

Another dog shot by off-duty Houston PD senior officer, this time, in front of the two children that he belonged to.  I still thank the lord that I didn't have to add that to my list of 2010 trauma...

 

This was a concern for me, both the day of the police and when my father came to my house harassing me.  Part of what my father wrote in the 302 report was that I had dangerous and aggressive animals (to protect my meth lab).  When my father came on 4/10/10, I tried to show him my home (since he never visited me otherwise) and I tried to show him that it was clean, comfortable and clearly NOT a meth lab--I showed him the meal that I was fixing in the crockpot (since he stated that I had lost weight due to a combination of starving myself and my meth addiction)--in the end, I did have to make my father leave my house.  He was probably inside twenty minutes--the rest of the day's events all took place outside.  The reason? My Rottweiler.

 

Those that have met Harrnh find this very difficult to believe, but she actually did growl at my father and all of the fur on her back bristled up.  I had to get him out of my house because I was terrified that she was going to bite him, in an attempt to protect me.  It's funny, I was initially terrified that she wouldn't protect me against PFA boy since she didn't have an aggressive bone in her body.  I had no clue.  As my father was in my house, screaming at me--demanding that I tell him "what I was on"--and check myself into a rehab before he physically escorted me there--Harrnh (my normal snuggle bunny, nothing more to fear than her sitting on your foot in an effort to get as close as possible)--recognizing the fact that he was threatening to physically harm me--stood between us and threatened to protect me as she saw fit.

 

This was part of the information turned over to the police on 4/22/10.  That I had an aggressive Rottweiler.  All I can say is, thank god that she was in the house when they came.  I can't imagine that she would have allowed them to do those things to me.  I cried for quite some time just knowing that she was in the house, watching from the window--seeing me being hurt by two men and taken away and how upset she must have been by the incident.  Truly, the blessing is that she was watching from behind a window.

 

Hells, they were so rough on me--a 5'2, 115 pound female because my father told them that I was suicidal, homicidal, had recently done bodily harm to others and had written a statement that I was going to kill my entire family (I would STILL love to see THAT piece of "evidence").  I think there is little doubt that Harrnh would no longer be alive had the events unfolded even a bit differently.

 

Sadly, had events unfolded as such, there would have been nothing I could do.  I know she would have protected me and there are no laws to protect innocent dogs when their owners are unlawfully taken.  Our system just seems rotten no matter how I look at it.

Whispers

I hate these days when the brain incessantly whispers negative nonsense on a loop, with hopes of dragging you down into the muck.  I have done better over the past years with kicking out the whispers, but sometimes they are so relentless that it takes every ounce of my energy to get out of bed and face the day.  It has taken me many years to beat being raised a pessimist and to find the positives in seemingly hopeless situations.  Like most of us, I can offer a slew of positives to those around me when they are down, but for myself? I am sometimes left sorting out scraps.

 

My fortieth birthday was last Tuesday.  I don't know if it contributes or not--maybe a little.  I guess I did have some hope that since it was a milestone, that perhaps I would at least hear from my grandmother.  Nothing.  But I guess I shouldn't be surprised--thirteen years ago, my Grandfather died days before my birthday.  So in those years following, the family's excuse was that my birthday was a reminder of his death.  The years before that?  Well, who knows?  Truth is, even as a child, I felt the outsider and treated differently.  Now that I am actually alienated from the family, why should I expect things to be different?  Ah, how the heart holds out hope and longs for events that the brain knows will never occur.

Today's Silence

Today's silence seems surreal in light of the festivity and celebration contained within yesterday's air.   Yesterday's hopes and dreams find themselves replaced by taunt faces, whispering hushes and a sense of shaken reality turned to brittle ash.  It is difficult to walk the streets without being coated in the shrouded mist of confusion and sorrow.  It is impossible to hear the news and not weep.

 

Suicide always leaves the survivors with guilt, remorse, sorrow, unanswered questions.  But this?  To come home and find your two youngest children dead, your husband dead and to know that it was all by his hand?  When family is your most precious asset?  How do you move forward?  How do you survive the grief?  Can any of us even begin to place ourselves within her shoes?  Within the shoes of the surviving daughter?

 

I feel the heaviness within my own heart and still cannot fathom even an ounce of her pain...

Civil Liberties?

"A man was pulled over and searched by police on the 4th of July at a DUI checkpoint in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.  Although the man repeatedly exercised his constitutional rights to not be searched and followed the law, the officers bullied him and forced him out of the vehicle despite committing no crime.  The motorist’s car was then searched by a K-9 unit who was given a false alert signal by the police officer in order to search the vehicle for drugs."  ~from The Libertarian Republic.~ 

 

Constitutional Rights Violation Video At DUI Checkpoint

 

"He said that it is okay to take away Constitutional rights and civil liberties for reasons of safety." 

 

This was the same reason that my father gave for lying repeatedly in my 302 report.  Apparently, when you are doing nothing illegal, nothing wrong, PERIOD--even if you know your rights and alert the officials that what they are doing is unconstitutional--none of that matters. 

 

"You see it isn’t, nor should it be, required that you wait until a person has hurt themselves or others to evoke sufficient concern for people to step in and try to avert the potential for bad things happening..."   This was my father's response when I questioned how he found it permissible to lie and make false statements against me in a legal document.

 

When I told the police that I knew my rights and that they couldn't touch me; they whipped me around, they handcuffed me, they took my personal possessions and locked them in their trunk and I was thrown in the backseat of their car.  They refused to identify themselves.  They refused to tell me what I did wrong.  Welcome to civil liberties, indeed.

 

I still wonder, to this day, what would have happened had I refused to get out of my vehicle.  I thought that I knew my rights.  Well, I did know my rights.  I was correct.  They shouldn't have been allowed to take me from my property.  None of those events should have ever transpired.  Yet they did.  What are the rights of a civilian when the law officials decide they are right?   Rights?  We really don't have any. 

 

Welcome to reality.

Hitting the DELETE Button

That's odd.  I do not recall, at any point in my life, signing a waiver stating that I would freely deal with all B.S. to come my way--be it from friend, co-worker, partner, family member, or any other human entity.  What is more peculiar is those individuals that INSIST that I must deal with it.  Why?  Why stay with miserable people that tear down my self-worth, that I dread spending time with because of the negativity cloud that they attempt to throw over my head, why waste precious minutes of my life with individuals that try to drag me down into the muck with them?  You can try to convince me otherwise, but I will just keep walking; thank you, very much.

 

Nope.  I don't remember ever signing anything stating that it was pertinent for me to keep these individuals in my life.   Maybe I missed the memo. Sorry.