"My work may be garbage but it's good garbage." Mickey Spillane
I am having a bad night. I was accused of spamming on Daily Kos. I wrote the same kind of things I write elsewhere. The same kinds of things that I write here. But circumstances are different over there. And what I write about was misunderstood.
But the worst part of it was that it triggered my PTSD off and sent me spiraling back into nightmares. I am completely unable to cry. The minute my throat tightens up and I feel tears behind my eyes, I fight it off. I had it ground into me that tears are weakness. My ex used to tell me that I would end up as a bag lady if I left him. That only HE could protect me and in order to gain that protection I had to obey his every wish. Doubts and insecurities were developed from it. He told me I could not write my way out of a wet paper bag. That I was terrible at everything.
I had to find myself again and Daverana is all that I have. So, of course, that’s all I do.
Every time I made a post over at Daily Kos or left a comment on a blog there, I panicked inside. It is a fact that chimpanzees as well as other monkeys and apes that dwell in tribes are only brave on their own turf. Dogs are the same. So as brave and bold as I am while on my own turf, I lack that in certain areas.
Life, like fiction, is filled with false starts and many regrets. We grow. But it seems like we grow in layers. Within the depths of ourselves, we are still the person we were yesterday and many many yesterdays ago. We have simply allowed our experiences to layer a new draft of reality over everything else.
I’m 58 and yet I’m only now coming to grips with the fact that I was an abused child. Every time my mother re-entered my life it all started up again. I wrote the things off as just “That’s how Mickey is.” But that is how children are encouraged to look at it. That is one of the ways that the victim is discouraged from identifying their painful treatment as abuse. And I cooperated in my own abuse. When my mother re-entered my life in 1980, I fled into the arms of someone who was just as, if not more so, abusive. He’s on his fifth marriage. He’s ten years old than I am and his current spouse is only two years older than his youngest child, my daughter.
So for tonight, I am running from my demons by writing. I haven’t had to do this for a very long time. I took my bed time meds, which usually knock me out in short order, and yet I never even felt them. I’m pumping too much adrenaline.
I read Tim Willard out on skype. I got Steven and Thea to look at the comments that set me off, but still could not calm down despite their best efforts to reassure me. I was running again. I have run hard tonight and I’m still going.
My decisions are usually build of many reasons. They pile up like the straws on the proverbial camel’s back. And then I take action.
Now, I’m going to close this out and flee back to my own little world and sink deep into the psyches of my characters.
Oh, and Hello, Tabetha. Don’t think I have forgotten you.