Tag: surviving

There But for the grace of god….

TW: Discussion of Suicide

I try to keep my blog some what light. Well as light as a half mad poet can be. Still something happened last night that got me thinking. One of the strongest women writers I know reached out to me. She had, unbeknownst to me, suffered through a suicide attempt during the holidays. Now this is not to tell her story, as it is not mine to tell. This is to tell my thoughts on something she said to me.

I have quite a bit that I bury to just keep going. Not whining, just telling the truth here. Between arthritis pain and carpal tunnel, my hands hurt constantly. My mental health adds a whole other aspect, as I dissociate. I struggle with impostor syndrome. I am diabetic, and my relationship with food is one of mutual hatred. I often get so busy that I forget to eat. I am raising and homeschooling the most stubborn teen known to man. I have not been able to go to college. The only reason I graduated high school was because my principal decided she didn’t want me wandering the halls anymore. I have dyslexia. I am an insomniac.

During all of this, I produce this blog. I write as 2 Separate pen names. I am half of Fae Corps Inc. I take on far more of the responsibility for it than I should, leaving my partner frustrated at me. She feels like I don’t trust her, which is by the way the farthest from the truth. She is one of a handful of people who I actually do trust, unequivocally. I have 20+ books under my pen.

Now…I told you all of this not because I felt the need to share. I told you this so I can share the point that was made for me. The conversation I had, and my take away from it…started out because of a thread talking about writers block. I really don’t have writer’s block, ever. Thanks to tumblr, and other fun sites, I can easily find new prompts. I have a collection of story ideas that may never get written. For me it is more a case of limitations. Mostly physical, and a lot of pushing past due to sheer stubborn stupidity.

Well, my friend told me that I am talented(which was a wonderful thing to hear) and too hard on myself. That brought me to the epiphany of today. I am hard on myself.

I have a hard time realizing my limits, and nothing I ever do feels good enough. Somehow, like the starving artist ideal, the poet who sees themselves as less always felt right. My self esteem has gotten better over the last few years, but not so much that I could easily stop the self depreciation. I think that the word change may be coming into play. Time to stop beating myself up for not being able to do what I feel like I should. Time to stop beating myself up if I don’t see my writing or my art the way others do.

I told my friend that I am hard on myself because that is how I keep going. There is and is not truth in that. I am forty four. I have spent the majority of that time having only myself to depend on. Making poor choices, mostly because I saw no other choices to make. Well why did I take the hard path? Because that was the only path I saw. Now, I have people in my life that have proven that they will be there. That form a layer of protection in case I fall. It’s something many don’t think about, but having someone who cares helps.

I have not been suicidal in the traditional sense in years…One of the meds that I was put on as a teen caused suicidal thoughts in me…but other than that I never wanted to die…I only wished that I had never been born. Now I have so much that I am responsible for in this world that is good…well I am past that thought even…and it is not something that I just woke up one day and didn’t wish that I didn’t exist…It was just gone. I look at my life and think that if something happens and I don’t wake tomorrow…I will be remembered as more than the emo brat that I end up being most of the time.

So let’s change together. Let us stop using negative thoughts to beat ourselves up. Together let us remember what we are doing that is good in this world. Spread Kindness for no reason. And together we make the world a better place.

Thursday Straight Talk (a day early)

Tw: mention of abuse, suicide, and rape.

I have ptsd. This is not something that I tend to talk about often because it has a stigma attached. I get claustrophobic. I hyperventilate. I dissociate. I struggle with the urge to hide. I am an insomniac. I am a survivor. None of the things I have listed make me a bad person. Most are the result of trauma and of keeping myself so hypervigilant for so long. I see a doctor. I take meds. Some days are better than others. I have learned coping methods. I have learned to be aware of my triggers. No I am not a snowflake. No I don’t have to have a safe place. I don’t even know what a safe place is. I take life one day at a time. I have panic moments as so many people do. They are from knowing that real monsters exist in this world. Monsters that hide in human skin. I am not suicidal. I really don’t want to die. However on my bad days I find that I wish I had never been born. I struggle with telling my story. I spoke my truth. I was called a liar. I came forward with one piece… And was not believed. I only told one person, because I was a child. If a child tells you their pain… Believe them. For you may be the only one they tell. My journey has been long. I was so fractured that I had at one point nearly 13 separate “alters” I am down to two. I used to have nightmares nightly. I am down to on average twice a month. Struggling with this does not make me less. I have come an amazingly long way… From losing months of time to now I lose an hour rarely. I am healing.

This is not something that I expected to post, if I am honest. I am careful about letting this all be “known” because I have others in my life that I know are embarrassed when the topic comes up. I have no reason for embarrassment. I am not ashamed of who I am. But, I love them. So I hold my tongue sometimes. However, I have been thinking about it. Perhaps it is not the right thing to do. I think that perhaps sharing the struggle might be more helpful for others who are struggling. I don’t know if I will share the details, yet.

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. The man who did it abused others. He served time for one, and only one, of his victims. He has never been to court for what he did to me.

I survived a gang rape. And I survived another rape.

I survived domestic violence, by more than one of my relationships. My current love is the first time I have not been physically abused by the man in my life.

I have been homeless. I have been without food. I learned how to survive in each of these cases.

I have done things that I was not proud of. Hasn’t everyone? So, if I have a bad day… I might post some depression memes on social media. My poetry may get a bit darker. My art angrier.

Still. I survive. I am always here ready to listen. I understand what survival costs. Some days are better than others. Today I did not sleep. My mind would not quiet. Today my mind was attacking me with my faults in litany. Tomorrow may be better.

I know that this is published on Wednesday. I will post the art for Wednesday a day late because I think that this is important.

If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386 or text “HOME” to 741-741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.

If you or a loved one is affected by sexual abuse or assault and need help, call the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 1-800-656-4673 to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

Writing Friday

Writing. Crap. What do I say? Do I sit here and try to explain that, at least for me, writing is something akin to breathing? That there’s never been a time when I didn’t need to put words together? And then I would have to tell you just how it feels to read what I wrote and think that I am not cut out for this. How many people who I know personally who are brilliant at this whole writing gig. Still… I would have to mention that the idea of stopping is actually painful. It has been how I was able to see the answers to life, since before I ever realized that there was a question.

Usually, I try to use the Friday post to give tips, and help with the whole writing and publishing thing. And I think that is great to keep the blog going… But today I was thinking about the reason why I write. Yeah… I could probably claim that I was trying to add beauty. But I don’t generally lie. My art is more how I do beauty. Abstract and pencil drawings to encourage happiness in the eye of the beholder. My children’s books are a way of connecting with my daughter, as they have thus far been stories I told her, or wrote for her. Serena’s stuff is stories that I want to read. But if I am honest with myself… My main writing is my poetry.

My poetry will never be hallmark stuff. My poetry is raw emotion and survival. I have lived a survivors life. My poetry is how I have been able to express myself even when my voice was stolen. I could write my story… Even though I was being told I lied. I could write it and it was accepted because it was poetry. It was written in a way that meant I was non-threatening to those who were part of hurting me. And it was written off as just an angsty teen writing depressing poetry… For don’t we all have that stage?

After I was free, and I was no longer needing verse to speak my truth, well it was still the easiest way to speak my pain. To spread my views. It was habit. I may never be able to sit along with the likes of Poe or Dickenson… But my words will remain. I will be there when another lost soul seeks to know that they are not alone.