some things change you forever

That was my reply to a comment on one of my last posts. Which?

It's been a while. You probably thought I was gone from this blog forever.

No. Just positively overwhelmed by life in these last few months. I've been trying to swim in the great tidal wave of life folks. Probably just like you but, funny, I manage to always convince myself that my problems are more complex, my feelings wider and deeper and more fragile, and this my friends is exactly how we get into too deep waters alone without a lifeline.

The sixish month old kitten I adopted is sitting quietly blinking at me with her night-time black eyes by the firelight. I can't tell if she's grieving over her lost sister who we buried just yesterday. I am. Grieving particularly hard that I couldn't stop her illness, couldn't find the right alchemy of love and medicine and herbs and such, had to watch her die rapidly, helplessly and hopelessly holding her tiny head to feed her useless concoctions written by our last-hope-vet. Grieving (absurdly, I know, I get this) that I failed her.

And perhaps my mind uses this grief a little too much because at least it's grief I can handle, instead of letting sink in all the way to my marrow just how messy Kyd's life is, how I have so little control over that, how I failed him too (yes, again, absurdly brow-beating myself -- it's what we mothers do). Though it is in my marrow. I never escape that swirl of guilt, sadness, hope, frustration, anger, and love. I am driven to an awful distraction.

The fire is waning and I'm mostly here to purge. I have work left undone that must be done by morning and instead of doing it I have slipped into that familiar paralysis that accompanies self-pity. This is a predictable formula. Self-pity = paralysis + procrastination = more self-pity. I don't need to check the math on this one. 

I got an email a couple days ago from a Buddhist list-serv asking for tonglen practice for this woman's sister-in-law who in the last year was foreclosed on, ended her 15 year marriage, witnessed a drug/alcohol induced suicide off her own balcony, and then just recently was beaten to within inches of her life by two robbers who stole away with a measly $150. She will need facial reconstruction surgery and may lose her sight, at least in one eye.

And it knocked me into perspective for a moment. My god the suffering life can heave upon one person's shoulders in such a short amount of time. It hardly seems accidental, does it? 

My own life rushed back in, as our lives are wont to do, in short order. The sick kitten who needed tending, the grief and rage over her life being stolen no matter how fiercely we wanted her to live. Kyd shifting from helpful and pleasant to raging and toxic without warning, without clues. And the packing up house to move, something that is supposed to be joyful. We, or rather Roi, bought a new house and it's beautiful.

I have so many feelings about this house, about moving, that I can hardly keep up with them. Instead, I become mute, fold in on myself, find comfort in the physical activity of packing boxes, and then lay sleepless on my bed wondering if I will ever feel ok again, or if indeed as my comment suggested I have been changed forever. 

an armless man

There are these moments when I see clearly how hard Roi is trying to learn to live with the new him, the new me, the clattering and discordant us. 

The new him is disbelieving that he was ever that man who once set to work seducing the bookkeeper of one of his clients. Who made plans with her to meet at a resort in upstate New York. Who sent her a photo of himself petting the face of a horse because he knew she was an animal lover. He laughs like an adult remembering childhood antics that are so distant they are more like memories of storybook tales rather than events experienced firsthand. 

The new me is a tattered assortment of vague elements. A moth-eaten sweater. Stuttered attempts to reclaim things that used to flow without effort. Hope, motivation, progression toward things, curiosity. The official depression has lifted, but I feel as substantial as a ghost. 

I've lost all patience, all empathy with Roi and it seems at least weekly I tear him down for being who he is. And yet each time, after his initial arrogant defense, he tries harder, tells me he loves me, and gives more. I wonder now if I'm the cruel one. If what I'm asking is as absurd as asking an armless man to will himself to grow new limbs.

maybe i'll fry up an egg

Existential ennui. A problem we only have when life is luxurious enough for it, no? 

Lately I've found myself hoping that Roi would screw up in some major way again. Not yet, not now because I still couldn't handle it. But maybe a year from now when the economy is moving again (will it ever move again as it used to?) and when Lexie has moved on to college so I can go for my masters, and when I'm strong again like I continually will myself to be on the daily. Because then I'll be ready to leave I tell myself, and the leaving will be good. 

In this vein I've made a couple of meebly surveillance sweeps. Checked the caller ID, browsed his internet history, nosed into his usual hiding spots for alcohol and painkillers. Blessedly I find my heart's not in it. In part because I've found nothing to raise my hackles, and what's more his behavior has been consistent. No signs of trouble. Nothing on the radar. 

Unless you count his unusual spike in sexual interest after coming home from a physical therapy appointment where I learned she had worked on his hip, and had him change into a flimsy set of shorts to do so. Or how when he left he saw his physical therapist and another woman talking and he was sure they were chatting about his physique. All of which plays into the fantasies that drove his particular flavor of sex addiction.

I suggested that his sudden libido surge (after six months of sexual anorexia) might have been triggered by these events, but he looked me in the face and said rather sincerely that, no, in fact he was just a "regular guy for once". 

Because regular guys are always convinced that two women talking must be fawning over his build. Because when Roi looks me in the face and says something sincerely it must be true. 

I walk into the kitchen, stare into the refrigerator and have a thought about the nature of sexual fantasy in "normal" relationships. Maybe's and what ifs float around lightly in my head without taking any kind of root. Maybe he got triggered. Maybe bringing that home to me is progress. Maybe I don't know shit about what healthy sexuality looks like anymore. Maybe I'll fry up an egg. 

Updates from the Land of Endless Insanity

My neurofeedback treatment continues to go well and I feel I'm improving daily and more my "self" than I've been in a long time, but the jury is still out on how much of my "self" is problematic versus my situation being problematic and where all the lines are.

Lexie is doing reasonably fine and she and I have become increasingly close over the last year.

Our cat died recently and that devastated me. That event was sandwiched neatly between Roi doing prescription drugs again under the auspice of shoulder pain, and Kyd coming home intoxicated for the first time in a long while and raining chaos and blustering, slurred anger down on everyone for a few hours before passing out.

All the while the country's economy is still hanging on a precarious edge and jobs remain scarce in my area so prospects for leaving or for affording the in-depth, comprehensive close treatment Kyd needs feel ever far off, though I continue to look, continue to try while pedaling the wheels of my own recovery as fast and steadily as I can to stay one hair ahead of slipping back into anxiety or depression.

One day at a time, one day at a time I tell myself.

Lighter Ground

I've missed this space. I mean, I think I've missed this space. But then, Fall is coming on and I always write more in Autumn as I fold in on myself. 

Roi and I feel very very done, but I've stopped trying to predict what might or might not happen with us. There's been some recent drama - nothing nearly so awful as before, nothing even involving a woman as far as I know - just enough to focus an unforgiving spotlight on where we are with each other. A constant stand off where I can't let go of any more, can't be fed one more spoonful of bullshit, don't have the heart to give in even just a little and he feels persistently villainized, imprisoned far too long for misdemeanor crimes, a victim of the train-wreck he helped orchestrate. 

The possibilities for forgiveness and healing seem impossible given our positions, but this doesn't make me any more inclined to extend the slightest favor in his direction. Even while sometimes my silence feels like a favor. 

And as I caught up on the blogs I follow here I read about a friend who now regrets the compassion she gifted during her ex's amends because he hasn't changed his core diseased thinking. And that's what this is about for me now. That forgiveness is a tricky state of mind and can be used against one to excuse bad behavior and that's the bullshit I'm not going to swallow. I can forgive the existence of the disease, but not  the unfettered continuation of it.

In daily life, all this looks like is that Roi and I have become barely tolerant roommates and we make that work as best we can, each taking flight as often as possible to lighter ground where we can catch a break, catch our breath, and feel ok for a few hours. 

message from a woman to men - this is not news

First off, there's this. An essay written by a well-meaning MAN telling women, "I see it, I see what we do, I see what the culture does. It's insidious, and it's not cool." 

He's talking about gas-lighting in the name of getting away with poor behavior. On one hand, right on. On the other hand it irks me a little. Because women have been saying this for what feels like nearly our entire history, at least since the advent of property and women being tied to it. So this MAN feels pretty proud of himself for speaking out, for showing his solidarity with the womenz, all because, at the root, this legitimizes it. Just look at the title. We need a MAN to say it so it can be true. 

So yes, thank you Mr. Man. I know you meant well, and in an ideal world it might actually make a difference. I actually do appreciate you opening your eyes and ears and seeing some truth and then having the guts to speak it out loud, but until women can speak these truths without needing a man to legitimize it, we're still not there yet. And it pisses me off that I felt a little relief when I read it, like WHEW, now a man's said it...things are gonna be alright. Because yes, I too believe at my core that I have to have my experience legitimized. 

It's not a harmless problem to have in the deep unconscious, handed down generation after generation. Sprinkle on some childhood emotional abuses and I'm ripe to be duped over and over by the emotional abuses of addicts (diseased as they may be, the behavioral product is emotional abuse, let's just be clear). 

But then, when we turn to therapy or 12-steps for support, we find more of the same. The too many stories I've heard and read of wives/girlfriends being told in therapy that it's just porn, or maybe you just need to be more sexy for him, or in 12-steps - you've got to let go of expectations, or you're just as ill as him or don't take it personally, it's a disease.

Because gas-lighting and victim blaming are two sides of the same coin. 

And I'm just at this point where Bill Wilson, or uninformed therapists, or my partner's male SLAA sponsor who doesn't know me OR my experience, DO NOT GET TO DICTATE HOW I FEEL, nor do they get to tell me my feelings or behaviors are wrong, or misguided, or reactionary, or ill, or any damn thing at all. 

I will legitimize my own story, thank you very much.

P.S. I wanted this to be a much more eloquent essay but a) I'm too tired to write anything but a venty post and b) I'm tired of even having to think about such things. If someone else is less tired and more eloquent than me, feel free to expand on this.

brain states sure feel real at the time

I know the new blogger interface is meant to be more "intuitive", but it's only annoying me. I don't like change. Way to be predictable, I know. 

For the record, I am now convinced more than ever that neurofeedback is a gift from the gods. I missed a lot of NF time over the last month due to being away, wanting more talk time, and then canceling an appointment which I cancelled because I was a mess and couldn't get up out of the bed to drive two minutes down the road and sit with my sweet cherub therapist. 

Stupid. 

She was a little harsh about it, but it set me straight. She manages my stubborn streak well. 

But here's my point. A lot of shit went down last week, and I was a hot mess but attributed it to all the goings-on instead of my brain-state. This week, more shit, but I'm calm. The only difference is that this week I have two back-to-back NF sessions under my belt. So Therapist and I agreed, no matter how much talk time I'm craving, or how stuck in the bed I feel, I must. do. the. neurofeedback at least once per week. 

I think we were both a little fooled by how well I'd been doing. Lesson learned and filed for future reference. My brain is resilient and responds extremely quickly to the treatment, but it's now obvious that the cPTSD is still alive and well and number one priority for my treatment plan. Particularly when I'm still having to live inside the "trauma field". 

So let's get to what's been boiling in the trauma field. Roi has taken on a new client. And I knew the moment he told me that he would be gone for the afternoon "consulting" that something was up. Here's the breakdown. The client is a woman. The consulting happened in her home. She's a massage therapist. She has no real budget for our services so she wants to barter.

There are a handful of reasons this is triggering and all kinds of wrong. Some is probably already obvious. First, there's the history with erotic massage. Which means he should have said no when his friend referred the client. Which means he should have said no to going to her home to consult. Which means he definitely should have declined on the offer to barter. Then there's the litany of contradictory explanations and excuses. He feels obligated because she's a friend of his friend. She's not a close friend. There's "some" money she'll be able to pay. It's not even a drop in the bucket and we have much bigger fish we should be focusing on. He wants to help a local business. He never wants to help local businesses, always complaining how they're a waste of time because they never have the money to afford our services. 

Both Therapist and a friend have pointed out I'm not going to be able to stop him doing what he does, but fretting over it, fighting over it, trying to control it just throws me off the plan I need to be funneling every precious drop of energy into. 

Yep. Right. Last week, not possible. This week? I've sent out two resumes, cleaned and organized piles of stuff (all the better to pack), and worked. 

Also hanging out in the trauma field smoking a cigar and looking smug is Kyd's relationship falling apart over trust issues. Seems his girlfriend likes to keep a selection of boys dangling, just in case. Sans neurofeedback I can assure you this would be setting off explosions in my head. By now I would have played out a dozen horrific scenarios in my head and worked myself into a frothy freak-out. Instead I was able to listen, offer a few words of comfort and advice, and trust Kyd to be ok. Basically not contribute to his stress with my own sense of urgency to smooth out his road ahead.

And you know, I'll be damned if he didn't handle it pretty well. Told her they needed a break, and was quite clear with me on why this is the right thing to do, and then put himself and his aching heart under the headphones to mix some music. I've got to trust my boy. Trust the tools nature and my teachings have given him. Trust that he's got to learn to handle his own bumps in his own road and my only job is to listen and help when asked. 

So yeah, neurofeedback people. It works.