Panick

I've been living with this ick for so long. I have to write about it. For me, it's part of how I get it out. And ive been shutting this part out. So I have that Ick that comes with ignoring your gift.

It's not that I think writing is my calling.  The thing I have always felt called to do, since my earliest memories, is to talk about trauma. To disclose and communicate in whatever form possible, the acts of violence and betrayal of trust, that I witnessed all around me.

This was not an easy thing, back 50 years ago when I was 5, and already had fear bubbling out of me like foam. It was rarely discussed, and accusations against family members were considered especially heinous. I knew this somehow, but had no words to convey it. So I became interested in words. I learned to read very early. I devoured myths and fairy tales. I retreated into a world of fantasy and metaphor. I wanted to convey my sense of approaching doom in an artistic way I guess. 

I was not believed for the majority of my life, except by my boyfriends and a few others close to me. The damage is impossible to hide from intimacy.

Ironically I feel some measure of relief at the validation from other survivors and a slowly awakening society. And then theres the rage.and the enormity, the magnitude, the coordination of all the abuse, that is almost too much for the body to hold.

My fear comes out like shaking. Vomiting. Cold chills. Terror of dentists. Distrust of everyone. Turning to stone for long, long periods of time.

Hysteria. Crying. Overspending. Undereating. Self loathing. Desire to be done processing all this fucking trauma, over and over and over

Desire to be healed! 

And a sweet vision of a world without abuse.

Recovery brought me to a point of self deconstruction.   And existential fear. I lost the belief that there will be a supernatural rescue. I began to think we have to get out of this ourselves and it will be a lot of work

And the lack of accountability for the evil in the worls just seems to much to bear some days.

I feel like Laura Palmer when she's sitting in her bedroom crying, and she looks up at the picture of the angel bringing children to safety. And she watches the angel dissapear. 

Then the fear. 

So challenged myself. How can the price of sanity be unrelenting existential fear? I tried to conjure images of joy, and of grace.

I wondered if forgiveness matters if there are no consequences.  

I got some grace. I saw my childs face. I remembered the forgiveness they gave me for my behavior while under sway of addiction.  That took a long time of them watching me grow and change, and try to make amends. It was true forgiveness, and I remembered that grace does exist. Kindness exists, and it is important.

I remember the joy on the faces of my loved ones when I would not be turned to stone. The real joy.

My goal is to stay present as often as I can to experience that joy. I will dedicate my life to speaking about healing generational trauma.

What grace I have to give, may it be yours as well.

Tripping (a research topic)

I tripped a lot. As a teenager, in Woodstock.  I would never say: alot.  

Before I ever tripped, I remember talking to Ez. about why peolpe liked Pink Floyd so much. We figured it must be ;*  acid.  

A year later, when i had tripped a few times, and gotten more used to it, i was watching Friday Night Videos with my friends. And i decided that Everybody Have Fun Tonight by Wang Chung was the best video you could ever watch while tripping.

Years later, a tripping episode would really traumatize me. 

But i prefer to stay with the wang chung.

Pps Oprah is not invited

I also love trees

 Movie Review

Yesterday I watched Tolkien. I feel very emotional about it, like I need to write and I haven't felt that for a while.  It was the group of friends he had at school, and how he lost them in the war.  They had a fellowship and a quest to change the world through art.  I remember thinking I could do that, when I first started writing.  But these things do get interfered with by war, and life.

Sometimes I get an excited feeling in my stomach like maybe we did change something, We fought against hate, we turned to the light, we did something good.  I hold these moments in my heart.

Most of the time I feel derealization.  Sometimes it gets so bad I can barely see. Everything is fuzzy and the colors are blurred.  Sounds are distorted.  Im numb and frozen.

Was it all a dream? I used to read the Silmarillion. 

Actually, I could never get through it.  My mom has read it many times.  She is the real genius with languages.  

I did get inspired to read about the inklings, which Tolkein's group called themselves, and I started watching the Ring cycle by Wagner.  I get teary, my fingers tingle, and I can see clearly.  

My insignificance helps bring clarity.  To see how unimportant I really am in this eternal struggle.   

This has been a terrible movie review.