“Shelter Me from the Loneliness of My Heart”


Photo Credit: Aura Gael, Sleeping Tiger

When I was 13 I hung out with a girl I considered my best friend. I say considered now, because in retro she wasn’t really a friend. She bullied me badly with another so-called friend of mine a few times among haaving some other issues with her that I won’t go into here.

She was two years younger than I, but she was taller and we had a lot in common where it counted at our age.

We liked the same music.

We had a lot of “stuff” between us that were inside jokes, we made up a song about certain adult characters in our town, we made up words in place of “Excuse me” and “Thank you” after burping. These words changed periodically and I think I’ll keep them to myself. We were, in a word, weird. And we were more than comfortable around each other to be our true and authentic weird selves. Which I can see now, as I write this that this is likely the reason I kept her as a friend, even after the bullying incidents.

We taped a lot of our silliness too and once, my friend recorded herself and my then 7 year old sister, singing a Neil Young song together. I had been busy with something else, while they did this and so wasn’t even in the room. It was fun to come across it later. It was cute to hear my sister struggling to take cues from my friend as to when to sing.

But I’d taken the tape over to her house one day years ago, while I was in my twenties and left it there by mistake, never to see it again. 😦

However, I have on paper, in my own young print, a song we wrote together. We took a song already in existence and changed the lyrics back when we were 13 and 11..

The song is “Powderfinger” by Neil Young. Not the same song my sister was trying to get right on the tape though.  Somewhere through the years, I made a copy from a copy machine and tucked it away in my “Rust Never Sleeps” album,which is the album the song is on, and forgot about it.

I found it some years back and have been keeping it with my journals. As I read through it with the intention of posting it here, it strikes me how telling my/our thought process already was.

Broken Heart
(Original title Powderfinger, by Neil Young)

Look out Daddy, there’s a white car comin’ up the street
With a big antenna and an 8-track on the dashboard
He said, “Come on honey, why don’t you hop on in
and take a nice,
long cruise.

Cause it’s less than a mile away.
If you really wanna get away
from the agony and the pain of this town.”

I knew it was love at first sight from that moment,We were only 16 but my parents were away for the weekend.
So we could go party all night at my place
He was the best guy I ever met
He was wonderin’ what to do
So he slipped his arm around my waist so smooth.

That guy in my arms felt reassurin’
But when he turned to leave, I said to him, “I saw it comin.”
My heart felt like it was shot, he knew it was broken.
He raised his right eye brow.
(I) Never stopped to wonder why.
Then I saw black and my heart sunk to the floor.

Shelter me from the loneliness of my heart
Save me from those awful memories
Just think of something pleasant for me
Before I breakdown and cry
About that great lookin’ guy.
I hope he remembers me as I was, I know I’ll miss him.

A couple notes here:
-In the third line, “He” is referring to the driver of the car…not the previously mentioned “Daddy.”

-In the last verse, first line, the original (that we made up) was “Shelter me from the powder and the heart” but what I changed it to, sounds better and makes more sense.

The original (see video with lyrics below) had nothing to do with dating, sex, guys who were dicks or any of that. At 13 I knew that much. But was also not an aware adolescent at all and the meaning of the original lyrics were way over my head All I knew was my own little world. And at that age, I’d already been hurt by a guy, repeatedly, who was too old for me.


Complex PTSD is an isolating, severe, exhausting disorder ~ Lilly Hope Lucario

This is such an accurate and articulate description of the way I’ve been feeling in the last three years.

The update is hopeful. The issue for me though, seems to be that there are no specialized therapists available in my area who are covered under public assistance.

Without an income I’m on my own and that scares me.

Even attempting to reapply for disability seems daunting and scary.

Last time I had a lawyer that showed up two minutes before my hearing, giving us no time to discuss anything and then blamed me for not doing well/saying the right things in the hearing.

Other attempts have been met with feeling like I wasn’t taken seriously. I think I struggle with telling people exactly how this feels and why I can’t work, so they don’t take me seriously.

Healing From Complex Trauma & PTSD/CPTSD


Complex PTSD is a very isolating, exhausting and devastating severe illness.
The psychiatric equivalent of cancer.
It affects every part of your life, magnifying every problem intensely and affecting daily function.
PTSD is a very severe, but normal reaction to severe abnormal trauma.

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People Hate the Truth

I wonder why I am still on Facebook.

Well I know why, but…

What happens is I get on there for a specific thing…like to message someone a specific question and then get all tangled up in other posts and even make comments.

I just made a comment about someone who called out a dog owner with a note, telling them to stop being so irresponsible (in a nut shell…she said more than that) and I made a comment to someone else who commented on it.

The comment I commented back on was something along the lines of “They will find a way to blame you.” (Paraphrasing though.)

I replied to this comment that he “is unfortunately probably right because people tend to get really defensive when you call them out on their irresponsible behavior, particularly when it pertains to their dogs.

I said this because this has been my experience quite a few times.

I clicked away wasting time elsewhere and then saw someone else made a comment on the same post so I went back to see what was said.

My comment was gone. The OP deleted it.

(Eye roll.)

This is someone I should un-friend anyway. And I’m too chicken to. It’s ridiculous. I’m still in that, I should this and I should that. And I don’t want anyone to ask questions or blah blah blah.

One day, a long time ago now, this same woman was ranting about vaccines (she’s pro-vaccine) and so I sent her a video of a woman talking about the cons of vaccines, who was making some really good points.

The response: “She needs to shut up!”

This is a chick who prides herself on the rights of the people.

Yeah, right! Such a fuckin’ hypocrite. The double standard is sickening.

Edit Friday 10/28/17: I ended up unfriending her. I got sick of seeing her bullshit. Not that I can’t handle someone who thinks or disagrees with me. What I can’t handle is someone’s response to a disagreement is to be nasty about it.  Since this chick believes what is told to her by one side of the aisle and has no opening for other ideas.  I can tell you that it is not just one side that is like that either. An ultra conservative is just as much of an asshole as an ultra liberal. What happened to questioning? What happened to allowing others to question without being a dick? What happened to respecting others?

I saw her quite some time after unfriending her, but it turned out that since I’d done that, something happened to her account anyway and I’d stayed friended to her dog…lol…yes, she had a FB page for her German Shepherd. And after her account had been compromised she started using her dog’s account exclusively for a while.

Fuck it. I recently quit Asshole Book altogether.

C-PTSD Meltdown: Severe Emotional Flashback


Tunnel of Yew Trees by Semmick Photo on flckr http://flickrhivemind.net/Tags/entangled,forest/Interesting

It happened today

I feel like I’m miles back…not just steps. In fact, where was the progress in the first place?

I was triggered heavily today into an emotional flashback because I saw a flea on my bare foot. We have been fighting fleas since October. I was truly hoping the fight was over. We’ve put in a lot of hard work to kill these motherfuckers and to see one today was maddening.

Moments after that, Mr. B handed me an envelope he’d gotten from the mailbox. It was from my sister and contained her annual Christmas card/picture of my nephews.

After deriving a bit of enjoyment of the picture, I like to see how my nephews are growing up, I broke down. Hard.

I raged and ranted about how my life is not my own. How I’m always putting out someone else’s proverbial fire, how someone else or their property needs my attention and that I’m obligated to give it…and I don’t get to tend to me or my life. (I had been doing this at the house as well in the last few years as well, before we moved to this apartment.)

It was a long meltdown.

It was hard on my body, I’m exhausted and can barely keep my eyes open right now. I feel tight all over, particularly in my back, my voice is scratchy and it’s difficult to get breaths.

I’m feeling ashamed because of how I behaved and Mr. B was here to hear it all and even be the recipient of my barking and screeching.

Of course, as usual, I apologized. And I am truly sorry because honestly, I cannot control these outbursts.

I would NEVER EVER hit him or touch him violently. But I do wonder if he questions that.

He accepts my apology every single time. When I break down in heaving tears, he asks me if there’s anything he can do for me. He has at times, come over to me and hugged me. But there are other times, understandably, he has no idea what I need.

I thought I wanted him to sit next to me today, as I sobbed sitting on my bed, to put his hand on my arm or shoulder, but he didn’t.

In the past, I would’ve been angry at him and barked at him about what he should do. Admittedly, I did feel a bit frustrated that he didn’t come over to comfort me. But after he walked out and I was alone again and still crying, I felt that it was better that I was on my own, not just to cry it out,  but to feel these emotions. All of them behind the tears. My feelings about the outburst and the ranting, about the apartment and the fleas, about my sister not letting go and about how the family treated me when my father was dying.

This comes up all the time, it’s got a really tight grip on me and it’s where the outburst is rooted from. Yes, I’m pissed at the land lady for her chronic denial but I feel like I’m trapped in the trauma my family caused me, which contributes to my situation in life.

My melt downs…particularly the screaming ones, like today, where I walk around screaming, barking and screeching profanities, name calling certain people and at times just generally primal screaming, must be really stressful for Mr. B.

One thing I barked at Mr. B, while in my emotional turmoil today, was that when anything comes from anyone in my family, it is to go into the shredder. If he gets it from the mailbox, I don’t even want to know.

It calmed me down after his reply to that was, “I should’ve known.”

It was like I sobered up then. I told him, “No, it’s not your fault.”

I want my family to stop sending me anything in the mail. I don’t want to hear from them anymore. I don’t want them to text, call, send Christmas cards or invitations or birthday cards. I don’t want them to knock at my door. I want them to leave me alone.

I want to send an email to all of them telling them this. But truth is I’m afraid. I’m afraid I will need them after I do that. How pathetic is that.

I’m crying again. I’m so sad that I can’t enjoy my life, that I can’t enjoy the person that Mr. B is, that I can’t seem to move forward and I feel like certain people won’t let me heal.  Fack!!!

I Made Myself Dinner

dsc02535I’m not feeling too sorry for myself. I’m feeling good enough to get my butt to the kitchen and cook myself some tasty food.

I’d already pre-cooked everything with the plan to have chicken and rice tonight for my solo Christmas dinner date.

A couple days ago, I used my crock pot to cook some chicken thighs. So easy. Thighs in the crock and season as you please. Cook on low for a couple hours and then crank it up to high. Moving it up to high makes the chicken way more moist than if you leave it on low.

I found this out by accident one night when I needed the chicken to cook faster.

I also made some steamed white rice as well as some broccolli.

So all I had to do tonight, after I took everything out of the fridge and shredded the chicken, was throw it all together in a pan (along with the gelatinous broth the chicken made) and heat it all up.

I had a little Kim-chi and some stuffed green olives too. I’m officially addicted to Kim-chi now.

And I also mixed together a little bar-b-que sauce and some (homemade) mayo to use as a sauce for my chicken and rice dish.

In the past, when I’ve stayed home alone on holidays (including Thanksgiving) I’ve had little energy and felt too sorry for myself to cook or prepare myself anything.

So when Mr. B would get home with no left overs for me, I’d feel angry and resentful.

Ugh, so narcissistic of me. But tonight I decided to take care of myself and have something really yummy and fairly healthy.

The chicken came straight from the farmer too by the way.

Sorry, no picture of tonight’s fare. The pic above is from another time I cooked chicken thighs with mushrooms.  Mr. B took the camera today and I don’t have a phone that takes pics.

As my father might have said, “Dems da breaks.”

It’s Almost Like Spring


There’s one really great thing about today. It’s unseasonably warm at 47 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s almost 50. Believe me, when it’s supposed to be in the 30s around here, 47 is toasty.

While sitting here in my room throughout the day, reading, writing and watching/listening to videos on my laptop, I have heard the pretty songs of birds outside my window.

My window has been open all day, and although I hear lots of traffic too, I have also heard some bird whistles in between.

A Slap in the Face

In meditation this morning, I remembered something difficult.

It was a relatively recent Christmas (within the last ten years) my family and my sister’s husband’s family were celebrating Christmas at my sister’s house.

My father and I had been talking, and something came up for me in my mind during the conversation. It was something I felt and still feel great shame about. Guilt too.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to help me let go of it.

As I began, he interrupted me.

Instead, he made his confession. He told me that when I was about three years old, I had done something that he watched me do from the window. (Sorry not gonna reveal it. It’s too embarrassing.) And afterward he called me inside and asked me if I’d done what he saw me do.

I told him no.

(Even at that age I knew his wrath and that telling him I did something I figured out he’d perceive as bad, would get me in a lot of trouble.) : This is my own commentary. My father did not say this.

Continuing, my father told me that he’d hauled off and smacked me hard in the face, when at the age of three I lied to him.

He was telling me this, he said, because he was feeling so bad about it.

Somehow we ended up in the living room after having started the conversation in the kitchen.I was crying. What I’d wanted to say, forgotten. A new memory now in my head, that I had not remembered and still don’t.

Now I carry it in confusion, knowing it happened, but not truly remembering it. Frustrated with my father’s need to dump on me this information, this memory, of such violent abuse he committed on me.

And as I sat there, on the arm of a chair in my sister’s living room, tears streaming down my face, she walked by and glanced down at me.  Our eyes met. I felt shame for the possibility she’d think I’m ruining Christmas with my emotion.

My sister kept walking.

No Santa, No Stocking


When I was a child, hell up through a lot of my adulthood… (because I lived at home up until…let’s just say an abnormal age)…one of my parents would sneak in my bedroom to leave the full Christmas stocking on my bureau. OK, so once I reached a certain age, they’d leave it hung at the fire place.

I remember even being awake in the wee hours that this happened one year. I was still a kid who was too excited to sleep.  But I pretended to be asleep when my bedroom door opened, so as not to spoil the ritual.

The stocking was to give me/us (my siblings too) something to enjoy and distract us from waking my parents up too early.

My parents would be up most of the night on Christmas Eve, finishing up for the next day. What took them all night, I’m not sure. It was certainly different each year and as we grew, I don’t think their nights were as long the years before. A lot less to assemble and my mother had more time to wrap things as we became more independent.

The stockings could only provide so much entertainment when three kids were anticipating all the fun stuff that would be under the tree, downstairs in the living room. All those pretty wrapped presents just waiting to be torn open.

I went to bed last night remembering the stocking ritual…every. single. year. Never a glitch. My parents were quite predictable in this and it was one of the many things that made Christmas so much fun in our household.

How they slept through our talking and squealing with excitement those Christmas mornings, I’ll never know.

I was feeling sad last night, thinking about how I would not wake up with an overfull stocking in my bedroom and thinking of it now,  my heart hurts, that there is no Santa any longer to leave that stocking for me.

A Chaotic Christmas Past


On this rainy, wet and gloomy Christmas Eve day, I feel quite bleak myself.

As I meditated this morning, my thoughts were all over the place. Finally they stumbled onto a memory of a Christmas past and stayed there.

I’m not clear on the age I was, but I would guess nine years old. And so that would make my sister three. This would make sense because any younger, my sister would not really be independent enough to sneak down the steps by herself.

Every Christmas, as the rest of us waited in anticipation at the top of the steps, my father would go down to the living room to set up a tape recorder at the back of the Christmas tree. He wanted to capture all the happy conversation, shouts for joy and other excitement.

Years later, in my father’s home office, I remember coming upon both reel-to-reels and cassettes, that resulted from everything he’d ever recorded, including all those past Christmases.

I would’ve listened to them all, but settled for the cassettes since there was no longer a way to listen to the reel-to-reels.

As I listened, I remember coming upon one Christmas recording in particular. One in which my mother was clearly in distress. I could not make out what she was saying, but she was upset with my sister.  At the time of listening to the tape, either my mother was present and explained to me or I’d asked her about it later.

She’d been angry, upset and distressed about my sister having sneaked downstairs by herself and having found all the pretty wrapped presents under the tree, dove in and incidentally, opened all (or most) of my presents.

I don’t have a memory of this, it’s only there because of the audio tape and the clarity my mother gave to it when I asked her about it.

As I listened though, I could hear the pain in my mother’s voice and my heart went out to her. At the time, I thought it was kind of funny too, that my sister had done that, and a bit envious too, as I would not have been so brave to do something like that.

For me, it was quite clear that you don’t go downstairs until dad says it’s OK. But who knows if that was so when I was three. I think it probably was though, given other things I’m aware of and an early developed fear of my father’s wrath. But my situation was different. I was an only child until a few weeks after turning three. So with an infant for a brother, there would not have been many other presents besides my own to rip open. My parents always exchanged Christmas Eve so they could have their attention on me or us kids while we opened our gifts.

Once I was aware of what had happened that Christmas morning, either as I listened, or thought back to what I heard, I began feeling sorry for my mother because her’s was the only voice on the audio making any noise of the injustice.

I could see in my own mind, what would’ve been going on. Where the tree was, where the presents had been placed, the wrapping paper strewn all over the living room, the train set in the foyer, forgotten for the time being.

My father apparently didn’t have much of a reaction, as I don’t remember his voice showing up aside my mother’s distressful one, seemingly close to tears.

I can only imagine now, her frustration in being the only one who felt this way. My father did not seem to be supporting her from what I could make out, not saying much of anything. (But my memory of what was on the tape now is blurred as well.)

Her tone of voice clearly demonstrated frustration, like she wanted to make it not have happened.  But she couldn’t and I also think she felt as though her hands were tied because it didn’t seem to be appropriate (to her) to punish my sister on Christmas morning. And maybe there was guilt too. (?) No presents for her oldest to open.

Upon further listening to the tape, I could hear my sister’s voice each time she’d rip open a package, squeal with excitement and then exclaim, “Daddy, daddy, look daddy…”and then announce to him the treasure she’d found in the beautifully wrapped box.

Should she have been enjoying herself so immensely after what she’d done? Not that she’d know better at three though right? But what would be an appropriate line of action for my parents to have taken? Perhaps that was another piece of my mother’s distress and deep frustration.

Thinking of this today…this morning…I want to cry. But not because I feel that I was slighted that Christmas. I don’t really remember it and I don’t remember my reaction. Surely there was something for me to open. But again, the memory is not clear.

I was almost never angry at my sister when we were kids. She could do no wrong in my mind, and I in fact gave her toys out of my brother’s hands at times when he didn’t want to share or when he’d had something first.

I no doubt participated in her growing feelings of entitlement, although I certainly wasn’t thinking about that or aware of it at nine years old.

I do feel sad for myself. I wonder if my father would’ve been so calm about it, if I’d done the same thing and opened someone else’s presents. I tend to think not.

I feel most sad for my mother though, because no one was there to validate her feelings, something I have a feeling she lived with most of her life.

And it is just another incident that chiseled away at the emotional health of the family as a unit.

Merry fuckin’ Christmas.

Possible Connection Between Diet and Post Traumatic Stress

For a long time I’ve understood that a healthy diet (read consistent way of eating) is the key to many health issues that are problems today.

But I’ve been confused on styles of eating and which one would be right for me.

For quite sometime however I have intuitively felt that a high fat low carb (as in starchy carbs) would be the healthiest thing for me, with maybe a bit more protein than the keto diet recommends.

So I’ve done periodic searches for connections between healing PTSD and diet and borderline and diet.

Today I did another google search and found an article on a website called carbsyndrome.com.

You can find the article HERE

If you have PTSD or C-PTSD you may find the article interesting.

There is a link within the article as well to a study that was done on women with PTSD. I didn’t read through it, but skimmed it. It didn’t look like there was a control group unfortunately and the study was done on women who were already eating a shitty diet.

It could certainly be said that it’s a cycle as well. If you have PTSD, you may not care about your physical health enough to eat healthy. You might also be interested in the comfort that unhealthy food gives you.

But it also makes sense that certain foods, especially of the processed variety, could have an effect on our brains, even those who don’t have emotional dysregulation, depression and impulse control problems.

Although I have CPTSD, I have noticed immediate effects on my mood when eating certain things, in both directions.

So then you have a chicken and egg scenario but again, from my own experience I’ve never had a consistent healthy diet, not even at home. All my life the majority of my diet has been processed, take-out and baked goods. That’s not to say I haven’t eaten home cooked meals, but they usually consisted of dry meat, frozen french fries, hot dogs, pasta…things like that.

Anyway, just check out the link. If nothing else…if you have C-PTSD, you will likely find the article interesting.