Thursday, October 19, 2017

ARE YOU SAFE?


Trigger Warning


YOU ARE NOT SAFE, NOT EVEN CLOSE.

I am quite uneasy; be still my nerves.  An unknown nagging feeling keeps jabbing at the back of my mind, worrying me, filling me with concern and disrupting my thoughts.  

I am supposed to write something for Therapist, but I don’t know if I have an accurate topic.  Something about finding a reason to give up cutting and restricting.  

I suppose this is in response to the fact that I’ve been cutting and joined a weight loss program that I am taking a little too far.

So I guess the question is why keep going back to old patterns that “don’t serve me well.”  

My response then questions why should I let go of "old patterns" such as cutting and restriction when they keep me safe.  Perhaps I am the fool or just engage in foolish behavior.  I own both.  But why give any self destructive behavior up when they serve the purpose of protecting us.  

I have an alcoholic part, but she doesn’t get out often.  But those that cut and restrict are doing so to protect us.  If we didn’t hurt ourselves, then wouldn’t others?  Maybe we’re just beating other people to the opportunity.

All I know is engaging in behaviors keeps me child-like, needy, requiring others to take care of us, make us safe, safe, safe.  It’s selfish, I know.  It’s almost manipulative to carry on hurting onself so others will be obligated to handle our life.  

For me, there is no safety.  I do not feel safe.  There have been brief moments of feeling almost, kind of safe with Therapist.  It doesn’t get lost on me that my long-term therapeutic relationships have been with men.  It’s also not lost on me, though highly ironic, that I was engaged to an abusive man with whom I felt safe.  

Maybelline sitting in my lap making it hard to write.


I’ve spent all of my life searching for safe places, from real and perceived monsters.  Searching for safe places for my minds.  What one part thinks is safe another doesn’t.  
So I just cut.  It feels good.  It’s not a desperate plea for others to notice, although we hope they do.  If others learn what we are doing, maybe they will save us from ourselves.

See, we’ve been on a weight-loss program, but we’ve taken it too far.  There are ways to get around recording what you’re eating.  And in addition, the calorie/point range is too low.  How do we know?  Dizzy spells.  Dizzy when standing.  Fatigue.  But we take our Adderall, get busy, skip lunch, and enjoy the thrill of winning that day.  And when we don’t win, we take a razor to our skin because that somehow makes it okay that we effed up our food that day.  And we keep it a secret until we can no longer stand it, and we hope someone will rescue us from ourselves.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.

And we are carted off to recovery facilities where they check appendages and other self-harm canvases, weigh us, check our vitals, and save us from ourselves.  But no more.  I will never go to another facility only to get a patch job.  

So what now?  How does one feel safe?  Does one ever feel safe?  When is it enough: to be safe from others or safe from ourselves?  Are those two even possible?

Secure, safe, protected, shielded, guarded, loved.  I don't know those words or connotations.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt loved in my life.  Never felt safe.  Never felt protected.

And when I hurt myself by cutting or restricting, that’s me saying, “I love you, and I will make sure you are safe and will be protected/looked after.”

And now that I’ve just made myself cry, I’m going to go make myself feel safe, loved, and protected.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Dear Me, I Hate You

These are things difficult to discuss because I'm afraid it will be thought I'm only seeking attention.  So when I say I don't want to talk about it, we really might need to discuss it but are afraid of people being overly concerned or or just not caring.  There is no easy way, and we don't know how to do "this" because "this" isn't a goddamn thing.

















And tired of your pretending to care.








It's all bullshit.  I'm against this post.  Never works.  Never.






Thursday, October 12, 2017

Writing, Therapy, and Flashbacks

I don’t feel like conspiring to write brilliantly.  I don’t want to care that the creativity has gone out of me like a candle in the wind.  I think I shall never write again because we are not in the blackouts of depression, despair, or constant self-damnation to write from the heart and soul again.


There’s a website I’m linking here called Writing Forward that has creative writing prompts, but I haven’t been doing them.  Maybe because I’m lazy, maybe because there’s no audience to which to write, maybe the prompts just don’t speak to me like writing about the dark side of life.  


But if I can’t write about things other than me and World War III, then what kind of writer am I?


Maybe I’m afraid.  Writing never comes easily anymore, and I think I’m afraid of failure.  Insert failure/success cliches.  


I bought a book for $4.00 full of creative writing exercises that I hope will inspire me. Perhaps this is a ghost I will always be pursuing.


____________________________________________________


So we met with Therapist 2x this week instead of the usual once-a-week session.  I think as a group we were in a better mood and there wasn’t such a self-imposed hurry or demand to get everything said and covered we could because we know there’s another session coming soon.  So I think we were more relaxed.  Today we exchanged first bumps, which is somewhat innocuous on the human “touch” scale.  


___________________________________________________


We had a flashback tonight.  I’m scared to think about it, but we can not let fear dictate which insiders we help and which ones we don’t .  What if the girl in the flashback is fleeing towards us? Are we going to close our minds to her and the help she needs?


I don’t know what you expect me to say.  


Nothing really.  I just think we need to be open to sights, sounds, and feelings and not abandon insiders.  Why so angry?


B L O C K

____________________________________________________

I'm sad. a teardrop falls in my hand.

Sunday, October 08, 2017

PAINKILLER

Things are quiet and subdued tonight.  Though I feel the need to write, words scurry away. I can’t wrap my mind around what is happening to me.
 
I listen to music; it is a salve to my soul.

music is my painkiller.jpg

Music speaks to me and comforts me, and I need all the comfort I can obtain now.  
I wish I could use my own words to kill my pain, but they do not evolve, so I borrow other’s.  

I am empty, tired, drained.  I’ve cried so much today that my eyes burn.  

I’ll put it on the list of things not to discuss with Therapist.

We went crazy due to this blog post we wrote here to which Therapist has access.  Things were said that never should have been and fighting amongst the parts ensued.  We will never be able to look Therapist in the eye again.  Then we spent Friday frantically e-mailing him, trying to intercept the blog post.  His response to the last email brought us some serenity again.  It was so simple: He wrote: “It’s not a problem.”  That seemed to calm us down.

Tonight I’ve hit a low key.  And I just want to walk away, disappear, and never look back.    I just need to walk away.   Heaven help me walk away.

Thursday, October 05, 2017

Am I Reality? and What Not to Disclose to Your Therapist!





An amalgam of three days of journal writing

Our purpose here is to figure out two things:  1) how to nurture our angry protector Tina 2) Therapist mentioned that we need acceptance.  Figure out what he meant by acceptance.  Accept what?

I don’t know what he meant by acceptance.  All I want to do is ask him to see us twice a week.  Would that be nurturing enough for Tina to see the only person she even semi-trusts for two hours a week?  Therapist would say no and charge us with finding other people we can trust, and then that would be the death of that relationship and I guess therapy.  

I think Therapist believes the only way to nurture Tina is through relationships, I guess so she can learn his fable that not everybody is scary and out to get us.  

We’ve not really talked with anyone, but we’ve hemmed and hawed to a couple of people about our stress, anxiety, and depression.  But truly it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.  One lady knows scant little and it would be great if she had been in touch with me these past few weeks during the death of Husband’s father and our move.

I want to prove Therapist wrong.  What if he’s right?  Of course he’s not.

I so wanted to get through life with D.I.D. differently.  I wanted inner communication.  I wanted to have the gaps filled.  I wanted to know myself and feel whole.  Therapist says i know or have an idea of what happened to me.  I might have an idea, but it is so vague.  I really don’t know.  I really don’t.  

All of this just brings up a panic in me.  Is Therapist saying I’m at the end of my therapy journey, that I can get on without therapy?  It doesn’t fix the current dissociation.  

I guess i have a fear i’m being cast off, abandoned, declared with simplicity that all i need are friends, trustworthy people.  And I will be so sad if that is what he is saying because having friends won’t fix these problems.


So, acceptance.  Hmmm.  Accept what?  What work have we done?  None.  Or we’ve regressed.  The insides feel distant, like no one knows each other.  I don’t have memories of who they are, what they’ve been through.  I feel like I’m starting all over.

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I feel dissociative but for no reason at all.  It’s not really a big deal.  I can just feel them behind my eyes, watching.  There are things i don’t want to write here because I’m afraid someone will put it on the blog.

I guess I can almost accept being dissociative and having other inside people a part of me.  I don’t like accepting it and there still is resistance.  I can’t fight much anymore.  I’m tired of fighting.  Fighting for the sake of fighting.

I hate that Therapist was told Tina trusted him some, but on some level we all trust him more than anyone, even Husband.  I wonder what it’d be like if we said we had love for him.  Not a romantic, inappropriate, stalky, perverted kind of love.  But a benign, innocuous, healthy! kind of caring for him for being trustworthy to a degree so far.  Ugh. Is that wrong?

Which partly explains why the group as a whole can’t shake the idea of seeing him twice a week.  Maybe it’s mostly selfish, wanting to feel relatively safe twice a week for an hour each.  

But Therapist is so flawed.  His optimism angers me.  I find his bright-side-of-things view puts a lot of pressure on me to live up to his expectations, but that is impossible and will never happen.

He says I already have an idea of what happened to me already.  I know a cast of characters.  Uncle.  Neighbor.  But I honestly don’t know what they did.  Maybe they didn’t do anything.  I don’t know and wonder how what the inside people claim can be verified and proven.  But when I say something, anything, I want to be believed, not second guessed.  I bet they would want this too.

But I feel incomplete.  I don’t know the people/parts inside.  There is no communication, at least of which I’m aware.  I used to talk with them, but I stopped because I felt silly.  I didn’t think they were really talking back or working towards communicating.  Like doing anything like I used to do such as baking chocolate chip cookies together, getting them Build-A-Bears, sticker books, children’s books.  I wanted to believe there was a connection, but that’s probably where some of the doubt has come from.  It really felt as if I were the only one doing those things, like they weren’t actively helping.  I was doing it all alone.  Forever alone.

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I’ve been thinking today that I’m losing touch with me, life, and time.  I can recite and tell what  was done today, like making phone calls, taking my dog Maybelline for a walk, the route we took, and cooking dinner.  But none of it feels like me.  I know I did those things, but did the real me do it?  It doesn’t seem like time loss, although there was a kind of awakening where I realized I had not been in control up to that point.  I wonder what has been happening.  Like I remember to some degree writing the blog recently, but it wasn’t all me.  Where is reality?  Do I live in reality?  Am I real?




I flip flop back and forth on whether to share these journal entries with Therapist.  I don’t know why I do.  He acts like he knows everything because he never listens to me.  He always acts as if he knows all the answers.  

I wasn’t feeling dissociative before or during eating, but I feel it now.  

Again, am I real?

I don’t feel well.  I’m split in many different ways.  My future seems shaky and i worry about everything.  

Still thinking of Tina, I think she needs less and less of Husband.  I think he’s soaked in his own troubles and can not help any of us to any degree.  I think that’s why we get spacy, distant, and unsettled when he’s around.  Tina would be just fine living by herself without having to wrestle with Husband’s mood swings.  I’m not looking to leave him, but I’m not happy with the way things are.  I am trying to be especially patient since the death of his father, but I would assume his father’s death would be a catalyst for change.  

So we cooked dinner tonight.  I don’t know for sure because I’m not in touch with her enough, but I think she enjoyed it.

I bury my face in my hands.  There’s something bugging me, nagging me, and it won’t go away.  When I close my eyes, I see Tina standing there, surrounded in darkness.  I think I see others, young ones, sliding down hills in burlap bags.  Where is this coming from?

Therapist said I have an idea of what happened to me.  I’ve gone back and done some reading, and vague generalities are all I find.  

Some writing says I was “hurt”.  Well, hell, what does that mean?  I’m not looking for minute, painful details to be disclosed.  I just want to know what “hurt” means.  And I want to know how the parts developed, why were they needed, what do they want and need now.  What are their fears or happy times?

I want more.  I want to know more about the people/parts that total us.

But as I stop and think how good it sounds, I know it will never happen.  Fear always wins.  

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This may have been written, but it’s not cause for discussion.  Don't even think about it. Don’t you dare.

Sunday, October 01, 2017

Home of the Not-So Brave

It’s been two weeks since I’ve written.  In that time I’ve lost a dear father-in-law to death, moved from a nice home to a cramped, crappy apartment, had an exhausting moving sale where all I did was fight with Birth Mother, and have barely escaped foreclosure on my home.  I’ve had enough.


In the meantime I’ve discovered I’ve been doing it all wrong.  Dissociation and my approach to it.


If there really is dissociation, and I still deny it, I won’t ever heal.  I don’t know how to handle insider people or if I even want to acknowledge them.  Just assuming I dissociate, I don’t want a relationship with them or hold that connection  with them long enough to hear from them what their hurts are, their boo-boos, their traumas.


Even as I type this, I’m rushing.  I want so little to do with this idea of dissociation or blog posting or anything associated with it.


I think at one point I might have wanted that connection, but I’m not doing the work with them I once was.


It is all overwhelming and makes me angry.  There’s no comfort for anyone here.


I don’t know how to create inside safety for them or even me.  Why create safety?  I don’t understand things.


I don’t want to speak with insiders who may or may not be feeling the trauma.  No one is hurting, but how would I know when I refuse to spend time with them?


I don’t care if they are good people or bad people, I want stay away.  


I’m scared.


One article I read said to remove replications of the outside trauma on the inside bodies.  GTFOH.  The author said there might be dirt, blood, mud, or messy stuff on the inside bodies.  TBH, I know this is true, but I can’t get rid of it.


The effing article also said to give the injured insiders “lots of TLC”.  Maybe the reason I am so defiant against the idea of being dissociative is because I am so well disconnected from them.  


And I also don’t have the patience for this crap.


I thought I was at one time building a genuine rapport with my inside people and that there was honest communication.  I think it’s why I like my last post found here.  It felt like honest communication.     But it has evaporated.  It’s like I woke up and had to start all over again with them so I decided I didn’t want to.  


So I hate them and I hate me for hating them.  


I’m also scared.  I don’t think since the original diagnosis over 20 years ago have I made any progress.  Where does that leave me because I don’t want to do the work anyway, so I’ll be stuck here for another twenty years if I make it.


I just want my words back and if one of those bitches took them I’ll be pissed.


What if I don’t have it in me to get better - not better - but have an inclusive, relatively peaceful life?  


I keep failing.  I don’t know who’s really in inside because I’ve shut them out so long.  I know names on a map but not personalities, and I don’t have the fortitude to find out.  

I”m out of time, in more ways than one.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Great Unrealistic Expectations

My dog Maybelline is stressing me.  She wants to go on a walk, and I just don’t have it in me to get off this couch, which makes me feel like a terrible pet partner.


Taken from today’s journal:


Been a busy day.  Service, errands, back pain.  The works.  I wish I could take a muscle relaxer right now, but I’m supposed to take Mabes for walk, and I can’t do that if I’m asleep.


Times and days are running together.  I find no support anywhere.  I was doing fine until Husband came home.  I was busy packing for our move, and when he came home we started to feel “off”.  Most would call that experience dissociation.  I don’t know what to call it anymore.  There is still the troubled argument of whether we accept the D.I.D. DX.  Tina gets very angry if we accept it.  But writing and talking just like this, isn’t that a sign of dissociation and of others?  This battle gets old.  I KNOW what’s wrong.  Tina’s doubts have left an imprint on us, but not a lasting imprint.  


*****I wonder if we’re making it up as we go *****


If you have D.I.D., but don’t acknowledge it, can you still improve anyway because the prescription of psychotherapy is still the same?  I hate whatever I’m going through right now.


So I was fine until Husband came home.  Then I felt “off” or dissociative.  I lasted as long as I could but broke down and took an anti-anxiety med.  It didn’t help much.  A muscle relaxer would help, but the timing is no good.  


So why do I feel “dissociative” when Husband comes home?  Probably because he’s so temperamental and to some degree I (and the littles if there really are any) am afraid of him, his moods, his headaches, his temper, his race -car driving.  I never know which Husband I’ll meet next.  So we get scared around him.  


If D.I.D. has lots of faces, shapes, and norms, why couldn’t mine be one?  I question whether I really hear voices of others or is it just my own voice.  I guess D.I.D. has been going on so long I have failed to recognize just . . . I don’t know what I was going to say.


What am I?  I just want to be sure I’m not lying or making a fool out of myself.  Mostly it seems too much to believe.  Bad things couldn’t have happened.  I had a happy childhood.  But, oh, how I hated Birth Parents.  And it can’t be denied that at least on a superficial level there was some abuse and neglect. I own that.


Good God.  *sigh* I think we want to see Therapist more than once a week.  What bullshit.  Some feel “close” to him and have a need for his attention, so they want to see him more often.  Little children who want to feel special.  Is that good or bad?  Does that give Therapist too much power and make us even more vulnerable?  Better yet, why need more attention now?  Has their source of attention dried?  Are they not receiving attention inside?  I doubt Tina, in her crisis, is up to showering them with love and attention.


For some reason, this journal entry feels accurate. I think it's because it feels like we're communicating.  It feels true to what is going on inside, and that is a cause for mourning: Mourning for the system that doesn’t feel like it used to feel, mourning for Tina who is not the same right now and is in crisis, mourning for those parts who require more attention and special feelings, mourning for those who aren’t getting their needs met by this ever-evolving system.  

I can feel Tina seeping her way through this journal entry.  I feel her sending her hate and anger to me, but that’s not all she’s sending. I sense from Tina some subtle undertones of helplessness and vulnerability.   I sense great fear in her . . . and great sorrow.  What a pity.  I almost don’t recognize her at all.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Protecting the Protector

I want to write, and I want to call out Sheila to discuss without emotion and bias what is happening regarding Tina, particularly and her denial of D.I.D.

I'll address my surmise of how Tina feels currently.  She wants to push the agenda that there is no dissociation because she feels out of the loop.  When was the last time she really had to defend and protect us?  Okay.  Besides the handshake incident.  Other than that, not too recently.

I predict her services will be needed again, but she's not used to being in the silent role.  She's used to taking action, not sitting back.  She feels unnecessary.  Everyone here has at least one job, and Tina's job has been to protect the system.  On behalf of Tina, there's been very little need from Tina to protect us.  She feels useless and unneeded.

Imagine how she might feel.  Instead of throwing up defenses to protect the system, in a way, she is the one who needs protection . . . from herself.  Without her anger, where and how does she get her power?  She doesn't.  And she wants in a way to send the whole system on its own by denying us, make us defenseless, so she can feel powerful again.  If she denies the existence of others inside, she gets back some portion of power because she can in a sense make them go away.

What Tina needs now, regardless if she believes we have D.I.D., is for us to rally around her, wipe away her tears, and above all let her know she's needed by us.

However, I don't know how to do the latter yet.  She's the only one who seems in crises.  How do you provoke or bring her out of her defenses?  It will be important to tell her how she defends us to some degree every day.  Whether it's getting our food right at a restaurant, a price right when shopping, or making sure we have good customer service.  She speaks her mind when it comes to getting what we need.  Thank her for that.

But there's another side.  If she has no one to protect, how can she lash out at Therapist and keep him in his place.  And we have to be the ones to let Therapist know what she needs and how she's feeling.  She won't speak loudly enough of her needs.  We must do that.

Tina believes, and perhaps rightly so, that she has a special relationship with Therapist.  I know she want to feel special.  We all want to feel that way, and that will be dealt with soon.  But for now, we must acknowledge the bond she feels toward Therapist.  She spoke up for us in the past.  It's our turn to speak up for her now.

We must remember that while Tina is a Protector, even she needs protection from herself.

In regards as to whether we dissociate, more discussion must take place.  It's true, the system has shifted, and I don't feel a strong awareness of what we're dealing with here and what the system needs and what the roles are now.  I feel the system needs to get to know each other again, if we truly dissociate.  I saw someone's handwriting recently belonging to a woman named Molly.  Is she new?  Are there others that are new?  We must be open to al possibilities and communicate more as a whole.

Monday, September 11, 2017

Conversations with my imagination

Saw Therapist again.  It was another wasted session where I refuted that I dissociate or have the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder.  To complicate matters more for me, he never came out and said, "Yes, you do have D.I.D." which gives me cause for hope and despair.  If we don't have D.I.D., then what is wrong with me?  I had a happy childhood.  Most of my memories growing up are good, though there are always some you wish you could leave behind and forget.  So now we are floating all adrift, don't know where we're going, how to get there, or what to do if we ever make it there.

Tina, I'm curious.  Why do you feel the need to deny it after all these years?

It's complicated.  I feel I am no longer needed, and if you don't need me I might as well disappear.    I don't know why I was around anyway.  Nobody needs anyone.  You seem to get along fine without my intervention and that makes me unneeded and invisible.  I feel like a damned lie.

Is that why you play games with Therapist, you feel if you keep messing with him he'll be interested in your well-being and you won't be invisible.

Don't play innocent with me.  Have I not done my job, and with no gratitude?  And have I not sat back and watched others embraced by warm, fuzzy feelings only for me to return to my coldness and anger?  Do you not all want attention?   I scan the room and find hearts that want Therapist's approval and attention just as much as me.  Almost all of you want his attention and want to feel special by him.  The littles look at Therapist like he's a father figure, and I'll be damned if we become a case of transference.  I know the Littles can't help it, but should I not protect them from the embarassment and rejection they will face?  And others just need to feel cared for.   So I'm here to protect you, though I feel I've fallen short, you don't need me, and I'm exhausted.  I just don't get myself.  There's proof I'm one way and there's proof I'm another.

It's not the first time you've denied we have D.I.D.  Why again this time?  Why now?

I'm fearful.  I wonder why no one else is.  It feels like something is going to blow up inside these walls.  I have not the imagination to know what it is.   It always turns into nothing, leading to disbelief.   How can someone ever get better with out knowing what's wrong with him or her?  How can Therapist effectively treat us when we don't know what to tell him?   I don't want to talk about this further for fuck's sake, but I will say that I get tired of being the angry, tall, aggressive, protective one. I've grown tired of being on the watch for everyone.   Just once, I wish someone would see I'm crying, scoop me up, carry me away, wipe my tears away, and tell me it will be okay . . .  the same way I did for them all these fucking years. I'm over it all.




Sunday, September 10, 2017

A Gluttonous Hijacking of Words



I want to talk. I really, really do.  But it's just too late.   Games are all I can do, and I've been messing with you.  At least I'm honest.

What a shame for me to annihilate chances to get help and for you to get so close to the truth and have it disappear in your hand like a puff of unicorn dust.  I don't always enjoy doing it, but we all have a call.  I supposed you could say this is mine.  And yours?  I haven't decided yet.

I do know this.  When I tell you the truth, you don't believe it.  How can I trust that?  When I say I am one, you must believe.  I told you the truth recently, and you presumptuously moved forward with a lie I've shut down.  So I dispense my guarded silence.  Doesn't matter.   It's more than I would have wanted to say anyway.













I feel like my time is done.  I must act quickly, lest even my borrowed words disapper again.  Why is it so damn hard?  I just want to feel better, but then again, I'd be okay if I just disappeared.  And that is the completion of my story.  Again, I'm sorry.  I was just messing with you.


When words just aren't enough



















Thursday, September 07, 2017




I don’t feel well.  I have been dissociative, spacey, and dizzy all evening.  There’s a sense of urgency to write, and I can’t escape it.  I must, I must, I must eject what’s in this crazy, demanding  head.

I was anxious this morning, but I knew I would be taking my dog Maybelline for a walk and that would help dissipate some anxiety, and it did.  After our walk, my anxiety lessened until this evening.

But this evening the anxiety shot back up, and the dissociation made it impossible to think and speak clearly.  I’ve had some things on my mind today, and I’m wondering if there is any correlation to my dissociation and anxiety.  These are not things of which I want to write, and I’m angry that I’m being pushed into doing it.

I don’t know if I’ve written about it before on this blog, but these memories came crashing into my head today, fresh and new, and I feel the need to document it.  I don’t know why it’s necessary to write on it, but I feel something  propelling me forward.  

What has my brain so rattled is the memory of me as a child sleeping on the floor because I was afraid of my bed. Stupid, right?  I don’t know exactly when it started, but I was somewhere between the ages of 7 through 9.  But that’s just a guess.  My memory just starts with me sleeping on the floor because I didn’t want to sleep in my bed.  The bed seemed scary.  I just remember finding sleeping on the floor comforting.  The next thing I remember is sleeping on the floor in the bathroom.  I honestly don’t know why I moved from sleeping on my bedroom floor to the bathroom floor, but something made me seek shelter in the bathroom.  

For years I slept anywhere other than a bed until I got married; of course then I started sleeping in the same bed as my husband, although there are still some nights that the couch is safer than the bed.

Why does this matter?  I don’t know.  Perhaps it doesn’t.  I don’t attach meaning to it, but somewhere inside I felt the desperate need to share it.  I know the writing is paltry, skimpy and scattered.  It is very dispassionate and non-descriptive, and it doesn’t really paint a picture of what was going on at the time.   But I don’t have a clear picture, and I don’t understand why it was so important to write about it tonight.  But I couldn’t not write.  As stupid as it sounds, writing this tonight was for survival.

I hate myself.

I would love to hear from those reading this.  Am I alone here?  Have you ever experienced your bed being scary, or  would you sleep in strange places?