Mad as a Hatter

Oh My God, I’ve had a just had a power encounter I never expected. A learned, very bright woman coach just kicked me hard to the curb. She took offense at my not jumping in line to become her client. She was in a huge rush to tie me down. I felt like a target, like a calf at a calf roping. She went all sideways on me over a context, a context that was not even the real point. Big Fucking Red Flag, Lady. What was your hurry?

I was blunt in fending off her imperious pressure to get me to commit to her, by saying I would not commit to paying her prices without taking time to consider the information she’d just given me. I tend to be caught up in the rightness of my own arguments, but my instincts were telling me something was off before she took offense.

Her reaction was too quick and off center for someone without an attachment to a personal agenda. Her ego flared and she used outrage to cover whatever it was she was really feeling. She’s accustomed to using who she is and what she’s got to create a non level playing field.

We were using private message on FB to discuss the possibility of me hiring her, which I now realize in retrospect was asking for trouble. When you are talking on the phone or face to face there is communication that is impossible to have by email, text or private message. What I found out nevertheless, was that her title of “performance coach”, was not incorrect, but it signaled nothing of her counseling background, which she did not choose to get a license for. Her education was extensive, which does not, in my opinion, guarantee a thing.

She had told me the people who come to her are either extremely desperate or ready to change radically. Her two attempts to refer me to someone else indicate she assumed the former situation was mine, along with some fairly strong arm verbal attempts to make me stop talking and commit to hiring her. Her mistake was in assuming she had read me enough to know, and she did not pay real attention to what I was saying to her as we proceeded and her messages got more and more one pointed. So who was the one that was desperate? Not me this time.

I am grateful for the ease in which I was allowed to get out of this situation. My inner bullshit detector is improving, and that it was connected with my awareness of what I don’t need while I was going through this was a welcome revelation.

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The Millionth Misplaced Key

I just found my car key. Where was it? In a basket I have that I carry stuff in, that I thoroughly looked in at least 3 times yesterday. This was after I have been stranded at home for about 24 hours. And I could not use a spare set because the ignition key I’ve been using had broken off in the lock, and nothing can start my car without the fragment that is not stuck in the ignition cylinder.

I’ve been putting off getting it fixed for the usual excuses but I have a feeling I should not anymore. Nor should I continue to have a cluttered house and overgrown grass around my home because I have spent years delaying on getting my life together. The suffering of spending hours looking for that key has re-acquainted me with how my home and life are not current energetically, despite constant and obsessive daily cleaning and re-arranging. It seems to me I found the key when I finally became willing to call the dealer and make an appointment to get the cylinder fixed.

This is only one of at least a million times I’ve misplaced something key, if you will excuse the pun. It’s either my wallet, cell phone,key or keys. I have learned finally to never think or say I have “LOST” whatever it is,only “misplaced” it. I have tried to use tricks to keep misplacing from happening: making many sets of keys,hiding them various places, having stuff on the ring which makes it easier to find, putting a key hook rack in the house.My car, which has a black interior, has canyons of crevices for the keys to fall into and disappear. As experienced as I am noticing something is gone and backtracking, searching for it, locking it in the car and getting fire, police and auto services to help, I still am mysteriously handicapped in finding misplaced keys.

I was meditating this morning around the phrase “misplaced key” and it turned into “misplaced qi or qui or chi” which means misplaced life energy. I’m getting the message I have not been focusing my energy where it needs to be focused in order for me to get my life together for me.

Just yesterday I was using a chant with sound toning designed to vibrate certain chakras in order to distinguish needed truth from non. I even paraphrased it in English to “all answers come to me”. Misplacing the key for a millionth time seems to be a kind of answer to me at the moment.

Today I saw an article on candida that makes a very good case for what has been affecting me digestivly for the last 15 years. And Candida can make a person scattered. It says that candida overgrowth interferes with the absorbtion of minerals, creates insulin resistance, lactose, sugar and gluten intolerance. This in turn, damages the gut and interferes with absorbtion of everything else. I think I may have it because if I am not taking minerals often, I start being hot and throbby and inflamed and have increasing pain at night. I also have to pee more, have dry mouth, and if I don’t take minerals it becomes mild but very bothersome incontinence.

Someone in my family has had candida, it incapacitated her for years, though she finally got it handled. I’ve been swollen up for about 15 years. Though I can alter my health for the better by doing certain things, I’ve had this chronic bloat up front from pubic bone to sternum that never goes away. Now I’m starting to hurt again, and I’m going to increase my minerals straight away.

The irony of all of this is that I’ve been chasing Candida and whatever is affecting me for years without really knowing what I have. I’ve got an infrared sauna and a biomat I don’t use for chrissakes. I know of a certain protocol I have wanted to use for at least 10 years. It now occurs to me that if I have Candida this might account for my inability to get on with eradicating it and being indecisive, lost and living with the situation I live with that is not condusive to me getting as healthy as I want and need to.

Yet right now mostly what I am is massively grateful I found my key. Gotta call that dealer and make an appointment.

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Cat Pee Monday

Yesterday the man I live with was roused out of his procrastination of clearing out his cluttered up truck by the scent marking of a young tom cat in our neighborhood of his toolboxes in his shed. He took it personally yet it led to him happily accomplishing much after he stopped reacting.He has chosen for a long time to leave that shed open 24/7 in order to allow cats to seek shelter there. I was able to see it for the gift that it was and effortlessly ignore his anger and distress.

This morning I woke up resentful and sliding towards helplessness, which have brought me to recognize more gifts coming my way. I have a flat tire, which means I need to get it pumped up or changed, and I am temporarily out of money. Our elderly beloved cat is experiencing cat incontinence, which means she keeps peeing on the newspaper underneath the catbox half the time, so I must go get some newspaper or have to listen to someone repeatedly bitch about it.

The man I live with has stopped smoking pot for 15 days,an unbelievable thing after 30 years of me moving heaven and earth to try and make it happen. I am stupidly angry that him stopping is not giving me what I need, as though something/everything is owed to me for opening up my shed to a stray I hoped would share and take shelter with me. And the realization that he’s been pissing on it and me metaphorically ever since is not lost on me.

The gift is I’m recognizing I’ve been allowing him to. Like millions of women, I have been unable to recognize my subjugation from within and know how to actually get on the road of authentic self becoming.

After all the slings and arrows I’ve endured for 30 years from the man I live with, the fact that his quitting pot does not sane behavior towards me make is a huge awakening. SURPRISE! sez life.

Oh, and to those VERY FEW people out there who actually read my blog and bother to make a negative comment…This is a PERSONAL blog. Sky’s the limit, the FBI, CIA and Home Security don’t care so why do you?

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The Only Thing We Are Good For

I just read a Chris Hedges article that was posted through Nation of Change about how Prostitution and Trafficking are being globally enlarged through countries that make it legal and people accepting it as an institution of commerce when in fact it is about economic slavery and degradation of women and people. Not a minute after I read it there was a comment by a man saying that banning prostitution and making it illegal will not stop it, and that organized crime does it if someone else isn’t doing the pimping, trafficking, and profit making. As if it’s ok to make anyone fuck for money EVER.

Hedges goes on to include information about a woman activist in Canada who runs a house for helping women out of trafficking/prostitution that has had it’s government funding cut because she won’t let the government have her records about the women who come through her her venue to be controlled and persecuted after they have gotten out/away from the sex slavery they’ve been coerced or trafficked into. She attests to the fact there are attacks on her and her activism to legally help and protect women from trafficking into sex slavery to keep the classism, misogyny, male indulgence to be able to buy sex and commercial status quo in place.

Once upon a time quite a while ago, I went to an art exhibit by a woman who had a series of masks made from molds of her face about being an incest survivor. I don’t remember where and when this exhibit was, her name, and I don’t remember any of the masks EXCEPT one: It was a small, dull red, eyeless form of her face entitled “The Only Thing I’m Good For”. The mouth area was pursed into an O shape, with the suggestion of something tubelike going there. Within seconds of looking at it, I got the message this was about a penis being forced into her mouth. And I will never, ever FORGET THAT.

This woman’s art inspired me to make clay masks that were from molds of my face and to use art to try and express my personal struggles with being female in a sick patriarchal culture and I still have them today, along with Process Paintings about what I have found unspeakable and horrifying about my life. What I have found is that we women oppress ourselves from within due to the momentum of generations of denial and silence around the explicit and categorical degradation of women and other injustices of our world. Like most of the all the women I know, I have colluded with it, not yet able to get a bearing on how I can change in relation to my growing awareness of my part in it.

Recently I went to a live drumming/dancing/singing performance dedicated to the ocean great mother orisha, Yemonja. As a bata drummer I have played bata rhythms for the cuban version of the mother orisha Yemaya. Yemonja is the Brazilian version and the performance featured a variety of offerings that were magnificent. I heard about the performance through my current drumming teacher because his children were in the performance. Going to it was uplifting and inspiring.

What I did not bargain for was running into my ex percussion teacher. I saw him during the intermission putting drums on the stage. I knew this meant he would be performing in the second half, which he did, with 3 other cuban guys. The performance was sold out, packed, and when I walked from the main room to the lobby, there he was in front of me. We had a moment of unavoidable eye contact and he turned to stone. He cut me cold, as though I hadn’t been the neighbor, friend and dedicated, consistent drumming student of his for 4 and a half years. When he arrived from Cuba, I was the one who introduced him to people that would become his students locally. I had nothing directly to do with the end of the relationship that had brought him to my home town and his exit from it.

This was not the first time he’d refused to acknowledge me. He did it before when I went to a drum class taught by a drumming crony of his in the city. He was there playing bell at the request of his friend during the class. He had ignored my smile and a wave then and it seemed like it might be accidental. But this time it was very clear it wasn’t. Though I can guess why he is no longer OK with me, I can’t be sure what he’s thinking and why he is shunning me.

It hurt and I felt quite angry though I did not react. Not one minute after I saw him and experienced the psychic slam to my gut, I ran into another Cuban fella who was also briefly my teacher. He hadn’t left on the best terms either. He called out my name, seemingly delighted to see me and gave me an enthusiastic hug. All a mystery, as I had been a hot mess when I’d been his student and didn’t believe he thought much of me.

And yet now I see this situation as the sign of real growth that it is. My ex teacher contributed a great deal to me becoming a better drummer. Yet I had arrived at a place where I knew I needed to move on and he’d taught me all that he could before it ended, and now I don’t have to pretend I approve of him personally. I saw signs of his general and particular lack of respect for women long before he was gone. He had some very good points as a teacher, could be benevolent at times, but he was often harsh and bordering on abuse of me and others who were his students. What he taught the most was FOCUS, and I cried some bitter tears learning it while fighting to not walk away from him for good.

I have no doubt now that I was more than occasionally treading upon an inner wound of father/authority material internally. He was perfect for it, holding a rigid standard of perfectionism in playing bata which resonated with my unforgiving internal judge.To his credit he ignored a lot of emotional static from me, including tears. The war between me and my love/hate projection of him was waged mostly in silence while in his presence during class.

I learned not to look to him or any other outside source for praise. As I got better as a player, my ear and awareness of what was correct and in the groove began to inform me more than his guidance. It was three years before I began experiencing my own excellence with an inner knowing that was sure, and there was nothing like that feeling. And I can’t begin to count the days of rage and devastation when I questioned why I was doing this at all before I came anywhere near to the joy of my own development.

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Drumming Class Heaven: The Divine Mr. Santos

Before the year ended, I got a call from a drumming class friend on the coast. She had noticed in the College of San Mateo catalog that a noted local professional musician has a latin percussion class he teaches. Because our Congolese master is no longer coming to our town, opportunities to drum are presently non existent. She invited me to join her in checking out the class before the semester was over. I told her I had seen the class in the catalog for years and wanted to take it, but hadn’t felt confident enough to even go to check it out.

After the New Year came and went, she called me again, and we agreed to call each other the next week and see if we could go check it out on the day of the first class. The day came, I called her, and she could not go, but she told me the time of the class, the building it was in on the campus, and the fact I’d need to pay $2 for parking in the Visitor lot to a Parking Kiosk. I decided to go alone. I actually lost my car keys that day, had to get someone to drive me home to get a spare set, and I knew it was because a part of me was in reaction to me finally going to check out this class.

I arrived, found the Visitor parking lot, and went up to the Art/Theatre/ and Music building early. I had no idea what classroom it was, had tried to look it up on the website but hadn’t been able to. I prowled and circled around the 2 floors of the building, seeing no one, and fretting. Many of the classrooms in the music area had digital dials on them, and small windows which were covered or too high for me to peek into. Finally I saw a guy pulling a conga bag on wheels and followed him into the right classroom. There was John Santos with his fedora, chairs, an empty dry erase board, and a conga. I let him know I was not enrolled but wanting to check out his class. There were some LP loaner congas, and I luckily was allowed to borrow one.

At the end of the class he came up to me and asked me where I had previously played, and was I Carolyn Brandy’s student. This was a moment I had never imagined could happen. It melted me to the core. I’ve floundered and struggled, been lost for too many years. I managed to get online, enroll, and try to register for the class within the next week. I had computer problems and had to call the Registrar’s office, and then had to email the instructor for a code number which was confirmation I had permission to take the class. I sent Mr. Santos an email and he gave me the code. When I had the money, I finished the registration.

I love the class. There are women and men, young and old. Some are experienced, some are not. Mr. Santos loves his subject, and is an excellent teacher. He presents all three modalities of learning: visual, auditory and kinetic. He breaks things down, builds slowly, answers questions. One time he brought a guest drummer, a friend who has drummed for Santana for 40 years. He has an assistant who sends us the drum charts after each class. He has tips from 42 years of drumming and performing. He sings the rhythms,steps and plays them, writes what we are doing on the board. We get three whole hours a week with him and a break.
With Mr. Santos, the latin percussion world is just one big family of people and stories are told of everything from how drums are manufactured to every kind of detail about rhythm there is.

I’m almost grateful it took me so long to get there. I’m experienced enough to know what a treasure I’ve found which I can respect, love and savor. The second time I went to class I took my own drum in a drum bag, and it happened to be cold and windy. Mr. Santos and his assistant were at class when I arrived early. I was bundled up in my North Face coat and a wool hat, and he invited me into the class so I would not be cold. I’m not used to being noticed or treated well, simply for existing. I think I’m going to like getting used to it without taking it for granted.

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Asstanga Yoga

Before the year ended, I took a 7 am Ashtanga yoga class from a woman teacher I’d never met before at the yoga studio I’ve gone to for 15 years. The fact that the class is only an hour as opposed to the usual hour and a half and is at 7 am in the morning really gives it a different feel. For the first time in 15 years, I was willing to change my habitual 15 year old downward dog stance to one which stretches my sacral/sitz bones area by pulling my hips further back and not allowing my heels to touch the floor.

This change has done some interesting things to my lower pelvis fore and aft. I have had both the back sacrum and front of my hips become something I’m way more aware of, get tighter and more open at the same time. I’ve also begun finally doing the chatteranga part of the vinyasa the way it’s supposed to instead of doing a flapjack sort of reverse vinyasa, though I skip planking and drop my knees down.
My Warrior 1 poses are crap, but I’m not worrying about them being good as I am re-introducing my body to classic Ashtanga, and I’m patient because I am not maintaining a strict daily practice.

I’m grateful to be able to be as active, flexible and out of pain as I am. And yet I sure would like to change my stuffed sausage torso and release all the excess flesh I’m carrying which is at least 50 lbs.
I can’t imagine my sanity or my health without yoga, and yet I forget almost all the time that it is there, and how much I have used it. I’m wondering now if a candida cleanse I have heard about for many a year and wanted to do will actually help me shed the excess pounds I’ve had for too many years. I wish I knew for sure. In the meantime, I’m feeling my ass end like never before.

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Can You Say Puborectal Muscle?

Today I watched a very detailed visual representation on why squatting is the way to defecate, as opposed to sitting on a toilet. I’ve known for about this information for at least 5 years, having spent years trying to deal with a sagging and swollen fat body, chronic constipation, overeating, food allergies and spending quite a bit of time and money getting colonics. Yes, that is one of those situations where you get a tube stuck up your anus and have water flushed in and out to remove stagnated poo and toxins.

I have a “Welles Step” I bought from the colonic hydrologist, which puts the feet up higher when using the toilet to put the body in the right squatting position. I haven’t been using it for years, partially because I live with someone who is so obsessive about germs and fecal matters to the point of hysteria, and partially because this unfamiliar position was awkward and foreign, despite the science behind it.I’ve known I should be squatting for some time, having suffered from constipation, varicose veins in my inner knees, two hemorrhoids,and having a distended, puffed up upper and lower abdomen. My torso looks like a balloon animal. I’m 50 lbs overweight and my upper arms, thighs, armpits and other areas are puffed up as well as my front guts and buttocks.

Now there are plenty of yoga and mobility teachers exhorting us all to do squats and stay in them for numerous reasons, yet I’ve found them hard to do. An overweight body literally impedes movement like that and it can be painful and cause injuries, something I have actively avoided a lot in the last 10 years. Now it’s 2 days I’ve begun using the Welles Step or another way of being in the proper position and I’ve experienced minor soreness in my hips and glutes that can only be from how much I’ve been squatting. By making a point of squatting some off the times I go to the bathroom, I am accomplishing what has seemed impossible. So now I’m breathing and squatting, and I feel good, though I look fatter than ever. I’ve also been eating a diet much higher in good fats and my elimination has gotten better than it’s been for years.

Yesterday in yoga I had the surprising experience of feeling two matching internal areas in my lower sacrum open up. It was strange and awesome. I’ve been doing my downward dogs differently, pushing back into the sitz bones more, after never for 15 years. Today I did 10 sun salutes in an Ashtanga yoga class without feeling icky, though the B ones were no where near what they are sposed to be. I’m still in “remembering to breathe 1A.” My hips are far from open and my ankles never seem to like me sitting on my knees, no matter how much “toe breaking” kneels I do. My knees are not in pain the way they used to be, but I’m careful of them, well aware of the varicose veins and broken capillaries I can see at the crease of my knees.

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See the Little Pufferbelly

My parents taught me a song when I was a kid while we were camping that went as follows:

Down by the Station, early in the Morning.
See the little Pufferbellies all in a Row.
See the station master turn the little handle
Puff Puff, Toot toot, off they go!

As the new year begins, I am all too aware that I have a Pufferbelly. I am definitely NOT a steam locomotive, what I have is a balloned out gut, despite endless attempts to de-tox, juice fast, get colonics, change my diet,exercise and whatever. I started doing the Bulletproof coffee, which jumped my weight up and down for about 2 weeks, but then I couldn’t do it for awhile and began eating flour out of the insanity of the triple whammy of 3 holidays in a row: Thanksgiving, Xmas and New Year. I knew somehow New Year’s was going to be risky, could feel it.

And it was. I went to 4 12 step meetings, one part of an alkathon, and a 2 hour yoga class, and the man I live with got blackout drunk and got himself arrested. The arrest was not a shock, but the aftermath has been the same old same old limbo I live where focusing on what I need to do is difficult to near impossible. I had a real attack of anxiety after the dust settled from the arrest. It dawned on me that the big A is what has been going on since forever in my life, undetected in my earlier years and blithely ignored in the energetic and vibrant life energy of my teenage and young adult years, but THERE none the less. When I fell through the cracks of a supposed to be achieving life of my thirties, despair and confusion began ruling things, and my forties saw me sliding down into an abyss I’ve never quite left, though amino acid therapy changed my mental health significantly for good. I’ve never been able to fully grasp WTF was wrong with me besides the usual ignorance and flaming immaturity.

A few years back, and I can’t remember exactly how many, I dragged the guy who was drinking at the time and suffering from YEP, ANXIETY, to an Art of Living course after reading a book on how yoga and breathing can alleviate depression and anxiety in people. The centerpiece of the workshop was the Sudarshon Kriya, a set of slow breathing while you count, bellows breathing, where you flood your lungs, and some pranayama fire breathing to three different meters: slow, medium and fast. It works if you do it everyday, just as all the other forms of breathing I have repeatedly studied do. Chi Kung, Astanga Ujiac breath, Rebirthing, Reichian breathing, the list goes on. And FINALLY I know I can get myself to do it. EVERYDAY. I have been doing it, and throwing in some sun salutes, mixing it up. I seem to have arrived at BEING ABLE TO PRACTICE. Drums and Breathing. At 60, all I can say to myself is better late than never.

It has also occurred to me getting outside, walking barefoot, and getting an Earthing pad for my bed will add to the effect of my grounding, which has been deficient all my life. Without it, I have been a ship adrift, and I’m excited to finally have a clue what has been wrong. I don’t imagine the breathing will take away my pufferbelly or solve all my problems, but it is a start. And it’s start that I can do, right here, right now, everyday, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. And I think I’m going to look up a local Art of Living teacher and do a refresher. I might as well, having wasted so much time running in circles and relearning the same thing in zillions of forms but never keeping it up.

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Merry Choppa Christmas 2014

The sun is shining, and a cold little breeze is blowing off the Maverick’s Bluffs. My conga drums are sitting in my little backyard with a chair. I’ve had a good morning. I was woken up this morning by my guy, who is still stuck in the idea he can drink a couple of beers and be OK. He managed to not be completely nutso and said a few good things before I got up and made it to a meeting where I was invited to read something and share. I’m grateful for all that as last night was nearly a night having to be somewhere else besides home for me.

After the meeting, which was well attended and congenial, I headed for a coffee shop I’d heard was open and picked up a couple of croissants. I called the guy and he wanted a chocolate filled one, and I got a plain one. We snarfed them down and then I made a real breakfast for me of sausage, hash browns, and 2 soft boiled eggs. The guy has four days off his stressful job, which has become a problem for him after 12 days of hard work with no breaks and a boss who’s ways of communicating suck. Though he is trying not to, he is unable to stop obsessing and negging about it all, and dump/yacking it at me with all it’s poison periodically.

I’m learning something new now, which is not to hang around and take it without going to war or trying to stop it. Last night, after he came home raging and ranting about how the bank had ripped him off( i.e, he was overdrawn), I left, because he was in the mode where nothing, especially me hanging around to listen and then have to say stuff he doesn’t want to hear, like “Calm the fuck down” works. The more I leave and the more peaceful I get, the more some part of him comes forward and has to handle things on it’s own.

Even though he managed to call me, apologize and hold himself together enough to do dinner because he didn’t want to be alone, he drank while I was getting the food( and I knew he might} The anxiety bullyragging continued somewhat after dinner. I told him I was going out for a walk, left, went for a walk I enjoyed, saw Christmas lights, and came home refreshed.It’s really slow, like a drop of water on a stone, but some inner part of him is getting the message I am not going to take it anymore.

I’ve sat down now and played my 20-20 cuban rhythm bits outside.I do 20 times with each hand leading for 20 minutes and today I really enjoyed it. I haven’t been doing it lately and I can feel the names fading, so it’s time to remember to practice more often. It’s only 20 minutes, after all, and the satisfaction I feel being able to do it is enormous.

I opened my Christmas gifts and got a charming little plaid fleece throw from my niece, a little white zip bag with an S on it from her also, and the requisite jammies from my oldest sister. I have to wonder if she’s actually read my blog, because she sent me a large, non flannel set, red, with crazy animal skin pattern colored coffee cups on it. They are quite jazzy, and now I will have to get some pictures taken wearing them with my Bulletproof coffee in hand to post on FB.

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I have had a very painful, but fruitful morning. For 3 days now I have been trying to accomplish some necessary tasks and experiencing a failure to launch. I’ve been like a plane that’s stalling before it takes off. I finally sat down and deliberately entered my inner turmoil, confusion, shame, and fear. I started calling people and leaving messages after 33333333333ing tons. The 3 is the “erase and re-record” prompt. It’s a way for me to hear myself and what is trying to emerge emotionally. Underneath the shame and fear was my hurt, and I’m hurting still, but I’m glad to be feeling it.

Not three days ago I got accused of deliberately smearing fecal material on a fan switch in the bathroom of MY house, as if that could EVER be true. Whatever was actually on the switch was microscopic and IT WAS NOT MY SHIT. I told him: “Call County Health. Get a Restraining Order. Call the Police. I never,ever, want to see you again.” I left for hours,called people, went to a meeting. I missed my “safe house” connection and by the time they called me, I was at my house and didn’t want to be anywhere else because it was dark and quiet.

I want to be able to leave and not come back without losing my home. I do not want to get a restraining order to forcibly evict a man I’ve tried to nurture for 30 years, despite his insanity. I know why and where it comes from. I had a man tell me he was glad his wife divorced him or he would never have gotten sober and found out who he really was. Now I have the pain of realizing everything I have done has contributed to him not having to change for his own sake. I’m worse off because I haven’t allowed myself to feel the pain of 30 years of hell. Now I’m feeling it, and it really hurts. I know there is a matrix of grief in there which has never been let out.

I’m discovering that when I allow the hurt in, it leads me to withdrawing from everything in the fear I will be obliterated and not survive.
I don’t trust that the people who have already been supporting me will continue. If my blood family didn’t care, they why will they? I’m sure that they despise me, and there is a silent wall of unpredictable need and a compulsive desire to not show vulnerability to them and risk rejection and abandonment for good.

Now I’ve broken through the enormous, heart wrenching lie of my deep unworthiness. I’m still hurting, but I’ve spoken to people who know me and know the truth about what is happening that are willing to continue encouraging and supporting me. I’m absolutely stunned at how much I have used distraction to avoid feeling it, and stayed disconnected from ever getting anywhere in my life.
I have left messages or talked with the people I have been shunning internally in order to avoid being shunned. Wow. Feeling is very tiring work.

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