Archive for the ‘reconnection’ Category

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjPqsDU0j2I

I spent a few weeks wondering how to continue this blog, mostly because I have nothing really to complain about. No pressing issues either really, that I find I must write about lest I explode.

But then one night I caught up with friend back in Canada, who said to me that there is no word really, for the change that’s happened. Not a victim, not a survivor, but something more. I remembered also the moto (?) of my blog: Learning to thrive… I think I’ve gotten to that place where I can honestly say I am.

So… I’ll continue this blog from there. An update:

I’m almost done the ulpan program (learning hebrew) on the kibbutz after 5 months. I decided to stay here in Israel and apply for citizenship. I’m looking into doing a year of volunteer work (instead of the army, which I’m not obliged to do, since I’m 25). I’ve also returned to singing, and have as a long-ish term goal to study voice in university.

I’m in love. A fact I’ve deliberately kept out of my blog the last few months so I won’t jinx it. He’ll be coming here too.

I also discovered Israel has a winter season. I had scoffed at the Israeli idea of winter. But I’m currently huddled in fleece pjs and sweater. I’m still cold.

I’ve also discovered capability that I didn’t have previously – Its not a big deal to work and learn six days a week. I have no money, and that’s also not a big deal. I’m in a new place, with a new culture and new language and the threat of war.

And I find myself extremely happy.

 

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I hate days when I end up craving the oblivion of narcotics and benzos. Today is a day when it feels like it’s all crashing around me. The last two-ish weeks have been really awesome. But without really thinking about it consciously, last night I crumbled beneath the weight of the fun. When I wonder when it’s all going to crash around me, it starts to.

When I start feeling guilty for making friends and having a life that is totally my own, I know how far I still have to go. When I feel trapped and cornered when the barriers are purely in my mind, it drives me even more insane.

So I break under the weight of small things, and the physical pain I’ve been experiencing and brushing aside for weeks flares with such intensity, I curse the stupidity of detoxing this year and wish I still had a bottle full of painkillers.

I napped over two hours this afternoon, a desperate attempt to ease my exhaustion and escape the pain for a while. Which worked while I was asleep, but now I can’t quite move. And not being able to move makes me panic. It means I am trapped.

And so the carousel continues to turn.

It’s the small realizations: how far I am from those I love, how foreign everything and everyone is here, how I still can’t, for the life of me, admit I feel like I’m dying from pain today. How innocent the other kids are here. And I realized yesterday that they really are kids, posing as badass miniadults. While I found it amusing and cute observing this, I can’t help but wonder at the badass stories of those who say nothing, but have the same half smile on their faces. And the thought I love most of all “what the fuck are you doing here, you’re just a whore”

Bleh.

Time to go lie in the grass to catch the dying rays of the sun.

So I’m sitting in a hotel room, having just been at my great-aunt’s surprise bday. Still in my dress. Thankfully shoeless (I started the night off in heels. Decided it was ridiculous to have sore, burning feet, and promptly switched to my baby blue Vibrams. Looked uber sexy with the little black dress 🙂

I think I fretted over seeing family for nothing. Yes, there was surprise that I was there. But I tend to forget just how awesome my family is, having isolated myself for so long. I end up wondering if I had just forced myself to remain in that bubble, would all the shit that’s happened to me still have happened? Probably yes.

So, from the hotel room comment, you can deduce I am in another city. While here, I’m planning on shopping. I was all pumped to buy new clothes this morning. Didn’t end up happening. I got pissed and returned to my room. It started with the grey sky and cool temperature, and ended with a saleslady giving me that haughty “what are you doing here?” look. And I realized that the effort I’d have to make of actually putting on clothes to try was way too much.

The night before I drove here, I was helping my mother pick clothes to bring. I tried giving her a pep talk. That beauty is a social construct that changes with the times at society’s whims. And fuck what other people think (referring to her exposing her arms).

I thought about that since. Beauty. And what it means. There is a post I did a while back where I commented about how my ability to see beauty in anyone is not a good thing. I fully take that back. Because I do see beauty in everyone. But I don’t want to fuck them. Which was what I was confused about before. Appreciation does not equal lust.

Anyways…

Beauty. I went to the party this evening with my arms and legs exposed. Gasp! Not only are my arms not toned, but they are scarred too. My arms obviously scarred. I wore my septum piercing too. This was not for a reaction. This was to be authentic to myself. Because I am comfortable as I am. And… well, fuck everyone else.

I ended up leaving early. Mostly because my feet were killing me in my gorgeous heels. I ended up sitting on the bed, wanting to go back again. I like being around others. It’s nice to realize I can carry a conversation and make small talk and smile and mean it. I don’t think I give myself enough credit at times (okay, all the time).

So as soon as I had tossed my heels, I get a call. My parents and aunts and uncles escaped the party also. And invited me to go grab a burger with them. The drive there and back was entertaining and enlightening and sad. The conversation was loud, outspoken, tactless, and truthful.

The burger was awesome. We snuck back into the party just in time for dessert. But by then the excitement had kinda died down.

It’s weird. I had to live a double life for a long time. And in a way, it’s like I am again. But I guess that applies to most people. You see the face the other person presents. Tonight, I tried to merge the various sides of myself. I did that with the exposure of my scars, my septum, my lack of makeup (mascara and lipstick don’t count when everyone else pancakes it on), showing my half-finished tattoo that’s on my leg (a coverup. It used to be a girl blowing her brains out. It’s now a water/lotus flower/rock scene). I survived. That’s what it shows. The fact I refused to wrap my body up just because I’m not acceptably thin. Looking in the mirror I could finally see that I have lost weight. And I felt awesome. And confident. And beautiful. And comfortable.

So. Theme song for this post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQDSDbfVde8

Cause this song makes me super happy whenever I hear it. And it’s safe to turn up the volume 🙂

I had a vocal audition of sorts yesterday. With a new music teacher.

It was an extremely humbling experience, which totally threw me off balance. I didn’t think I could be humbled any further when it comes to my vocal talents. Part of my problem is that I never truly believed I had any.

However, yesterday hit it home that the voice I used to have was more impressive then I’d ever give myself credit for.

But that’s the great thing about hindsight. Kinda like my looking at old pics of myself and wondering why I ever thought it was a good idea to gain weight.

I usually say it’s been a few years since I took lessons. The last time I took lessons seriously, I was being encouraged by my teacher to study voice in university. Like with many things, I did not think I could cut it. I don’t trust my ear (tres important when it comes to singing), and my theory has always sucked (I blame my lack of understanding in math for that – too logical for my artistic mind).

The last time I can remember taking lessons… I think it was at least 6 years ago. Time flies when you date assholes who pimp you and attempt murder.

I definitely have the passion to continue this… wherever it might lead. I just don’t think I have the trust required to let my voice go. It’s not just a lack of trust in myself, but trust in an audience as well. You have to be willing to lay yourself bare when you sing. I’m not sure I can.

But I’m willing to try.

I think I’ve punished myself with silence enough.

These last few months I’ve realized that my normal quiet nature has turned into an almost unbreakable silence. I guess that’s part of the reason I’ve finally returned to music. I have to force my voice to work until I am once again comfortable with it.

My silence is a survival tactic I no longer have any use for if I want to move on. And I do.

I need to unload a bit here.

My house is currently undergoing renos. The whole main floor, the spare bathroom in the basement, and the stairs going to the bedrooms upstairs. That is just the first phase. Second will be the rest of the upstairs. No idea about basement plans, but its already been tinkered with.

Anyways.

Having strange men invade my living space is disturbing to me. My old-ish line to myself of “I’m too fat to be attacked” or “They can clearly see my sister is the pretty one” (don’t judge me, I love my sister, but it’s true) can’t quite work for me anymore. Obviously, rape/assault has nothing to do with sexiness or attractiveness. I clearly know that. Doesn’t stop my thinking. Doesn’t help my discomfort.

So –

I’ve kinda been hiding out in my room since they started. And my room is not a place of comfort. It started getting really messy around the time I was almost strangled to death. Actually, mess is putting it kindly. It looks like a hurricane tore through. I guess you could say it’s now an outward reflection of my inner turmoil. Except I’m not sure how much turmoil I’m actually feeling anymore. So I’m not sure the mess really does anything for me anymore.

Even my bed has been a source of triggers. This is something I don’t talk about to anyone – the why’s of how I wound up crashing for over a year on the couch in the living room. Which I can’t do anymore. But, it being my bed, it not much of a stretch to imagine what has gone on in it. Shudder.

Which brings me to my next thought.

I f*cking hate – HATE – the city I currently reside in. I’ve lived here forever, and so many places here bring back things I do not care to be reminded of. Tonight reminded me of that. I was out with my parents, just to get a break from my room, and we went to pick up some stuff for our makeshift kitchen. Would not have thought that would be a source of triggers.

But as soon as I walked in, I wanted to get out. I looked longingly at the bus stop. Then it hit me. I had been there before. Why I would have been in that area, I have no idea. Not an area I would normally frequent. Regardless, in a flash it all came back. An seemingly innocuous memory… I was there with the same ex mentioned above, and he was telling me about a cosmetic procedure he wanted. Ridiculous – the guy was freaking gorgeous, but whatever. We then went in for a space heater, I think. No memory of what happened before or after that. Just the place. Which was enough to make me feel like I was about to pass out while in the store. I guess being stoic is both a good and bad thing. I panic, and no one can tell. Not that I would want anyone, especially my parents, to clue-in to my feelings. I was very glad to leave, however.

Sigh –

That’s been happening more and more. I wouldn’t call them flashbacks, because I associate flashbacks with the symptoms of PTSD… It’s more fragmented memories surfacing. Memories I didn’t think I had anymore.

Memories I do not want.

Because with the memories come uncomfortable feelings. Shame, guilt, disgust. In myself, mostly. I feel very uncomfortable in my own skin.

But I guess that’s part of the process, and I can accept that.

Stay safe ❤

I think the power of touch can be transformative, considering that we carry so much trauma within the body.

I also think there is a lot of power in our denial of touch– it says a lot about the depth of our hurt that we cannot allow someone to companionably or compassionately hold us, caress us.

I never used to have that problem– denying touch. I would crave it, and I would find it. I never questioned how much my need for touch was actually destroying my ability to be intimate. I went about finding touch in the wrong way– acting out sexually, when what I needed was compassionate and healing  touch.

So I ended up completely abhorring touch, and denying it to myself. And I wonder, is that behaviour any healthier? I am depriving myself of a basic human need.

http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-trauma-touch.htm

http://culturemagazine.ca/activism/the_liberating_power_of_gentle_touch.html

I have been doing tons of work, by myself, and with others, to help integrate body and mind. It’s been working so well so far, I feel less PTSD symptoms, I’m less reactive, less stressed, I don’t have violent nightmares anymore (or dream at all).

Yet– I know I have to add in therapeutic touch to help give me a boost. It is the one thing I am not working on. I still shy away from other peoples touches, and feel uncomfortable getting hugs. I’m beginning to feel that some focused touch on my back would be particularly helpful, as I store a lot of trauma there, as well as my face, and who knows where else. I think it would be especially beneficial to my detox process. As well as give me the building blocks for emotional intimacy (something that has always made me cringe).

I have a massage appointment in another hour, with the same woman who does BodyTalk with me, so I know for sure she has some experience with (emotional) trauma and it’s physical effects. The idea of a focused touch on places where I won’t even touch myself has me stressed, to say the least. But it’s too late to back out now– I have been avoiding therapeutic touch for several months now, and have never had a massage with the goal of releasing trauma… I would just dissociate for the hour. Not healthy.

So, wish me luck 🙂

Stay safe ❤

I am beside you, and yet so far. I feel your breath, the strength of your body, I hear the soft words you speak to me.

And yet…

Sigh. I am saddened. I see this as a weakness I must eradicate from myself. I must somehow purge you. I cannot go back to the way things were, and yet I do not know if I can go forward and “forget”.

Part of me feels unwanted here, like you are simply resurrecting a memory of me, and it is loneliness that has you reaching out. The fact you won’t make a move on  me both gladdens me and frustrates me. I don’t seem to be a place yet where I can simply lie beside any man and feel adequate on my own if there is no sex going on.

I just want to be validated somehow. That I am not here for nothing. That I am not a complete and utter fool.

Is it so wrong to hope that if I can change so much over the last few months, that you have changed also?

No need to answer that– I know the answer.