Fragility

"Life for all it's agonies..... is exciting and beautiful, amusing and artless and endearing.... and whatever is to come after it--we shall not have this life again." This is among one of my favorite quotes from Rose Macaulay. In it she talks about a life that is lived and loved, about savoring every moment for what it is. About the fragility of life itself.

Early this morning I got word that Tak, one of my closest work companions, died suddenly in the night. He was not much older than me. Not even 60 yet.

Tak was one of a kind. If I were asked to describe my sweet friend I would do it this way. And it would come quite easily too. Tak was thoughtful, loving, intelligent, loyal, and giving to say the least. He was, to be completely honest, an amazing man.

Tak and I had been around for a long time in the company and had crossed paths in those years. It wasn't until 2004 that we came together in the same office and on the same shift. He had come to fill a vacancy on evenings, one that a former coworker had recently given up. We became fast friends and close confidants. Over the next 6 years we developed a relationship that was extraordinary. In every way we complimented each other. We worked closely and in many ways we knew what the other was thinking. We were a team. During the slow times we sat and talked about everything; practically nothing was taboo with us. Sure there were some boundaries but we never hesitated or questioned why they existed. We just respected them and went on.

Tak was there when I woke up to my abuse history and for the intense period afterwards, never flinching, never stepping back.. He listened intently, caring for me in the dark days of 2005 and 2006. He watched my back when I needed protection and I watched his. Ours was a deep and abiding connection. When we got word in late 2009 that we would both have to move to different offices we were resigned to the fact of it. We didn't like it but we accepted it. When our last day together came and we were leaving for home he grabbed me and hugged me. And I didn't want to let go; but I knew I had to. Since then we have crossed paths many times and had been lucky enough to work together a day here and a day there. And we both enjoyed it too. When I got word that I was going back onto evenings in a few weeks I was thrilled because it meant Tak and I would be able to work together again. That we could rekindle our relationship again albeit in a different setting. But now that is not going to happen and I am heartbroken.

A few weeks ago I spoke about my recovery. About how difficult it is for me to stay present in the best of times. I spoke about how someone had once told me that each moment we live is like a brilliant flash of energy from within and without coming together in a unique way and that these fascinating moments will never be repeated. That the whole of our lives are just a succession of these once in a lifetime flashes. An amazing spectacle of light. I spoke too about how life is fragile because we never know what will happen next. Life is like that. It could go on to its natural end whatever that means or stop abruptly in the middle of the night much like Tak's did.

For me that is the fragility of life as I see it.

In a world of instant gratification and mind numbing speed; am I willing to experience these brilliant moments in their entirety not knowing what will come next? That in a sense it doesn't matter really what is coming next. That the fragility of life too is not just about living. It's about dying as well. It's about how fragile the world around us really is; including our environment, and our families. It's about the fragility of all things.

I feel that despite what the tenets of any tradition tells us, we can never be sure of anything that comes in the next moment. And that is what I feel Rose Macaulay wrote about. And that is what Tak has given me among all the wonderful things over the years; the understanding that life is indeed a very fragile thing and that it is all about loving and living and cherishing all of the those unique moments; those brilliant flashes of energy as they happen. And knowing that; "...whatever is to come after it--we shall not have this life again."

Rest in peace my loving friend.

The Unexcusable Act

It has been nearly a year since my precious baby girl Sylvia passed and I am still consumed with grief and guilt. Every time I look into her brother's distant eyes, every time I look at her ashes, every time I think of her running through the house or laying, curled up, asleep on the perch, I become lost in the abyss that is my grief and guilt. She died at such a tender age. Just 6 1/2 years old, too young to even enjoy the long life that she was destined to have.

To take a human life, whether they are two or four legged, is an unexcusable act; and I blame myself for her death. And rightly so. She was in my care, my child of sorts, totally dependent on me to feed, nourish, and love her. And I missed all the signs. It wasn't because they were subtle. They weren't. Many were quite obvious even to the casual viewer. I missed the signs because it became all about me and not her. I missed the signs because I needed to detach my inner child from her's and her brother's for that matter. I missed the signs because I needed to respond differently to them when they became ill so I didn't get triggered around my own shit. And that is what I can not come to terms with. That, in effect, I caused her death because I took the focus off of her and put it on me.

It's a incredibly difficult thing to accept. That I caused the death of another human being.

I had lunch recently with a dear friend of mine. We were having a serious discussion about life, family, and baggage. I sat there listening to my friend telling her story, bearing witness to it and all of it's challenges. Then, when she had finished, I heard myself saying words of wisdom, ones that were being channelled from her Higher Power through me. They were introspective, questioning, challenging. But the words I heard were not only meant for her. They were meant for me too. It was my Higher Power speaking to me as well. On the long drove home from the Peninsula I heard those words over and over again, radiating out, bouncing back, echoing throughout my grief and guilt. Words that were meant to finally create a path through my deep and abiding emotions. Words that I had, up to this point, denied existed. I am still trying to deny their existence but it is much more difficult now. They're out there, roaming around my inner existence; reeking havoc; causing trouble. Challenging the very foundations that I have come to accept about myself and my role in Sylvia's demise.

So where do I go from here?

That is a very good question, one that at this point I have no answer for.

The Human Condition

I was watching an episode of Sex and the City a few days ago, the one where Aiden and Carrie break up for the final time. Near the end I started to feel that familiar tug of wanting to be a couple. Afterwards I started thinking about life and why the yearning to be in an intimate relationship is so strong for us human beings. I started to ask myself, is it an innate genetic need or are we just so programmed by society that we can not resist the tug to be a couple.

No one can deny that being "together" with someone special is out there, everywhere we look. It's in the movies, in books, and magazines. It's in our friends lives, in most of our parents, and in the all of the animal kingdom. We see people with wedding rings on their left fingers, all a constant reminder that the ultimate human condition for us is to be in a couple. And more importantly that if we are not in a couple we are somehow missing out on life's greatest adventure, the supposed endpoint to all coupling; the institution of marriage.

So really, why do we want to be a couple?

In light of the recent ruling that overturned Prop 8 I find that this question is quite important. I am one who understands the basic need for socializing, having friends, and engaging in intimate relationships; but is the logical end to that intimacy marriage? I can see all of the legal benefits but what if we, the LGBTQ community, could get all the beneis that already exist for straight couples who have married, would we actually choose to get hitched? And if the logical answer to that question is no, then why are we putting all of our civil rights eggs in the proverbial marriage basket?

I can say that I view this latest civil rights battle with somewhat dubious eyes. I can see that we are putting ourselves in a very precarious position. I can see we are winning and could quite possibly win the top prize by default, but at what cost? Recently one of the online new sites showed a map of all of the states that have passed laws defining marriage as being between one man and one woman. I looked at all of that mass of color, the color of hate, and I thought, what if? What if we win by default? What if we win by some quirk of legal fate? What then?

Well, here is what I feel "what then" will encompass.

I decided to look up how someone goes about amending the Constitution of the United States. Yeah, the one that all these right wingers hold in such assumed high esteem, the one they seem to think is set in stone.

There are only two ways to amend the Constitution. The process is set out in Article V.

To propose amendments:

Two thirds of both houses of Congress vote to propose an amendment or two-thirds of the states legislatures ask congress to call a national convention to propose amendments.

To ratify amendments:

Three-fourths of the states legislatures approve it or ratifying conventions in three-fourths of the states approve it.

I call your attention to my reference regarding the color of hate.

That map I saw was overwhelmingly the color of hate. So, what if we win by default, what if gay marriage becomes the law of the land. Just how much hate is out there? Enough for say 34 state legislatures to ask congress to call a national convention? And what if it is called? Just think of all that political agenda stuff the right wingers just love to pull out every two years? All that fear mongering? All that hate. All that rhetoric about having to preserve the sanctity of family. That institution whose facade covers up all that alcoholism and all that domestic, physical, and sexual abuse. Ever heard the saying, never divulge family secrets? I understand now why it is so important for them to preserve the sanctity of family, it's because they can't handle the truth of what the institution actually is. If the truth every got out they wouldn't be able to handle it. So what better than to just be in total denial. That is why I feel they become so indignant when the institution is questioned; we are in essence questioning the very tenets of their denial and by extension their sanity.

While I'm making the list how about these; the right to an abortion, immigration, and equal rights for women. What about their chance to amendment the Constitution so that the courts can no longer be activist as they like to call it. Ahat about racial equality? Civil rights? Voting rights? States rights?

I can see these right wingers salivating at the very chance to enshrine their political agenda in the Constitution. The same document that they supposedly hold in such high esteem. In one fell swoop they would rewrite society in effect destroying the country and the very document they claim they want to protect.

A scary scenario you say, one that is not likely happen you say. I again call your attention to the color of hate. All it would take is 34 state legislatures to ask and 38 states to approve.

A scary scenario indeed; but as I see it, one that is more likely than not to happen.

The Power of Abject Fear

I was remembering a story I wrote some years ago about a dog I saw on the street. A very poignant story that has meaning for me today. The story began like this:

I walked by the coffeehouse today on the way to an appointment. There, sitting at one of the outside tables was a young man with an adult pit bull at his side, tightly leashed. As I passed by I made eye contact with his dog. What I saw looking back at me was the manifestation of my inner child. The dog's body was shaking in a barely controlled state of abject fear. I wanted to bend down and gather him up in my arms. To Soothe him. Protect him. Love him. But I knew I couldn't.

He was a living breathing human being existing in a state of abject fear.

As I sit here rereading that story I can still see the dog's eyes. That look of fear, all consuming, all knowing, with not one single hint of it every abating. The power of abject fear.

I see that look every time I face a mirror. That power lingering on from my childhood experiences.

In the last 6 months I have hit yet a new bottom in my recovery. A place that I thought I could never go; but I have. And there are no signs of it abating anytime soon either. I do have times when it is not in the forefront like now, but when it's quiet, in the still of the morning or just as I am falling to sleep, that is when I feel it most. When there is nothing else to distract me from my pain.

The story about the dog continued;

That was my inner child's world while he was being abused. In some ways it still is. A place where anything can happen without warning, Horrific things, Painful things. Confusing things. I have a tremendous amount of compassion for my inner child. I often wonder why or better yet how he survived the things he did. As an adult I do not know how I survived it either. I have expended a phenomenal amount of energy running from the realization that I had been sexually abused. Now I expend that energy coping with the legacy of my abuse.

Not a lot has changed in the three years since I wrote that story. I still expend a great deal of energy coping with the aftereffects of my abuse.

I went to dinner with a friend of mine last week. We go together often. One of our joys is to stroll down Polk Street while we decide where we would like to eat. This night we decided to eat at Pesce. We sat at the bar as there were no tables available. We were having a great time eating wonderful food and chatting with the bartender when I got triggered. It was a certain movement of the bartenders arm as he shook a cocktail that did it; and that was all it took. It must have been a direct memory connection because within a a few seconds I retreated deep within myself. It took some twenty minutes before I was able to ground myself.

This is my life. A series of triggers that continue to happen even after 9 years of therapy, 6 of which have been directly focused on my abuse. My work does not stop. In all of that time I think I have only recovered maybe about 30 minutes of actual experiences, all in bits of 20-45 seconds, sometimes longer. The horrific nature of what happened to me limits my ability to recover anything more.

My latest bottom happened as most do, as a result of a convergence of many unrelated things that then merge into one. Through it I have realized that my inner child, like that dog, still exists in a state of abject fear. And that is not changing. When the worst of the abuse started I sequestered a huge part of myself in a sort of safe house; a place where nothing or no one had access. My inner child is still there. Worse, is that safe house is still has strong as it was when I created it much to the detriment of my life as it exists now. In many ways the creation of this place was the only thing that keep me sane and alive. But now it has become my prison, a prison that I can not get into nor can my inner child get out of even if he wants to. In many ways he still thinks that I am a child and that the abuse is ongoing.

He is still living in a state of abject fear and nothing I can say to him will convince him otherwise.

I have lost all hope that my recovery will change my life even though I continue to do hopeful things. And maybe that is all I can do right now nor expect myself to do. Maybe it is just about taking it one day at a time, one step at a time, one hopeful act at a time. Maybe that is what I am suppose to do. Maybe that is what this new bottom of mine is all about. Making me focus on now, this moment, the sound of the wind as it rustles the ferns in the grotto, the feel of my breath as it fills my lungs, the softness of my boys fur as I touch his body. Maybe that is the key here. To experience the inherent beauty of each and every moment within the spiritual nature of all that the Goddess has created. Maybe that is what this new bottom is all about.

Changing of the Seasons

I worked in the garden today and I saw evidence of Spring everywhere. The agapanthus are in full bloom their flowers as blue as a cloudless sky, the Serbian bellflower is ripe with buds waiting to share it's nectar with the bees, the sun was shining, its rays warming the soil that I tilled beneath my feet. For me their is nothing like being in the garden. There is something about the nature of that soil, its loamy sweet aroma filling my senses, that takes me to another place and time, one that is devoid of that pervasive sadness that is in my soul.

I have been seeped in sadness for most of my adult life. There is the obvious reason, the one rooted in watching my friends die for so many years, one after another, from a horrible disease. But there has also always been another deeper soul ache too, one that got tapped into with each passing death I bore witness to. I remember saying to friends as we stood in yet another hospital room that there was nothing more sacred than to be present at someone's birth or death. I also remember saying that no one should be so intimately acquainted with death at such an early age. And we were. By the time I was in my mid 30's I had lost count of the friends and friends of friends that I had lost. Each one a part of my life. Each one taken so young. I remember sitting on the ground with my then partner at the memorial service for a friend of his that I had only met once. I could not stop crying. He asked me why I was sobbing. All I could say was I was crying for yet another life of someone who was taken so young, their cycle of life ending before their Spring had ever been lived. What I didn't know at the time, I was also crying at the loss of so much of my own life too.

I think these are the hardest things for me to come to terms with in my ongoing recovery. The loss of my innocence to the horrific sexual abuse I endured for 4 years. The loss of all the time afterwards when I was literally running from the memories lying just below the surface of my consciousness. And now, the awareness of the loss of potential that my life held had I not been abused.

I visited some private gardens yesterday here in the City. They were part of the Garden Conservancy's Open Garden Days Tour. There were 6 that we went to see in different parts of the City, some up in the highlands, one spectacularly perched on a cliff with a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Each wonderful in their own way. Each a representation of the unique vision of the owner and their gardeners. But there was only one that profoundly affected me. It was the last one we saw in an older part of City called the Western Addition. It was a small garden located in the back of an old Victorian. It was clear when were arrived that the home was well cared for. The front had lovely old vintage roses and the original wrought iron fencing, but what was missing was any hint of what was in store for us in the back. That was revealed slowly as we ventured down the side path. The first thing we saw was a beautifully laid table with moss place mats, four settings of delicate china, each topped with teacups that were overflowing with miniature plants. It was setting the stage for the unfolding of a whimsical place full of fairy lairs, a bed made of layered mosses and succulents, a humpty dumpty perched high on a fence, a babbling brook, among many other things. It was a magical garden that pulled me down onto my knees, creating for me a sense of childlike wonder at each little tiny piece that made this place so incredible. And once I was down, I became aware that I was being connected to the very energy of life. I told this to the owner as we were leaving thanking him for such an amazing journey. He thanked us for coming and told us that my experience described his wife's soul perfectly. I left feeling like I was walking on air.

It is important for me to be reminded that this still exists, that someone could be so loving, so childlike, and so integrally connected to life's energy as an adult. I lose sight of that much of the time even though the cycle of the seasons in my own garden very much mirrors my experience yesterday. I have tried to create in each cycle a constant feeling of rootedness in the energy of the earth, each one representing a part of life's journey. I have also tried to supplement my garden with statuary, pieces of sentimental art, and found objects in an attempt to create a sense of mystery, spiritual connectiveness, and childlike awe. One that is rooted in the energy of the earth, the history of this property, and my specific journey through recovery. And when I am out there, like I was today, I do feel that connectiveness and awe. It is just hard sometimes so keep a hold of it as I make my way through each day. I feel that is why I am so grateful for the opportunity to garden the terraces behind my apartment building and to experience the journey of others as represented in their gardens; because for me these are the important things of life, the true bits of life that make all the others bits livable. It's the integral beauty of birds splashing as they bath, of bees moving from plant to plant feeding off the nectar, of flowers reaching for the sun, and the sounds of the wind as it rustles the leaves of the trees. This for me is Mother Earth's constant voice whispering to me that she is there, at my side, always loving, always supporting, as I walk the difficult and often painful path towards wholeness.

Un-Civil Society

I am for the most part a very jaded person especially when it comes to politics. But even as jaded as I am I do find that we are living in very interesting times. I have to say too that I am not particularly happy with what I am witnessing. I am a firm believer in the saying that "history repeats itself". Not exactly as it had happened before but in the manner that it did.

I have studied over the years the causes of war and revolution, the break down of societies, and what the after effects are to such large scale events. My minor in college was European Studies with a focus on Eastern Europe and Russia. I am also an avowed Russophile but not for the reasons most would think. I find the history of Russia to be fascinating as I do all of Europe. There are many lessons to be learned there. In particular it is the definition of what Civil Society means at any given time and what happens when it starts to break down.

Civil Society is really at its base an unwritten contract between the citizens and their government. It doesn't have to be any particular type ie Captialism, Socialism, or Monarchal. None of these really make any difference. They are really at their roots all the same. They are all systems in which the citizens agree to the conditions in exchange for something the governments provides. Russia is a great example. In the early days the contract was between the gentry and their Czar. The Czar granted the gentry land and serfs while the gentry gave the Czar their loyalty. Neither could have really existed without the other. If the Czar had not kept the church in line and the serfs by extension the landed gentry could not have lasted. The same goes for the other. The Czar could not have existed without the money and the support that the gentry provided. It was for the two of them a happy arrangement. But as we know it did not last.

Throughout history revolution has played an important part as it has in many ways expressed the will of one group or another in their dissatisfaction with their part of the contract. We have all studied history in school and we all know what Revolution means. I am stating the obvious because there is also a flip side to revolution that is much more sinister, one that I feel is relevant to the times in which we are living. That is the revolution that happens when the dissatisfied are cajoled, manipulated, and ultimately controlled by what could only be described as a charismatic leader. Post war Germany in the 1920's gives us the best example of this. The 1920s in Germany was a very interesting time. As the result of World War I, the civil contract that had existed prior, broke down. There was unrest in the streets, rampant inflation, poverty, and most of the population were disillusioned. There were stories of rampant corruption in business where certain elite groups made massive profits in selling armaments to both sides fighting. There was government corruption and rulers who represented themselves as fair and just when they were not. The Weimar Republic that followed was for the most part ineffective. All of this laid the groundwork for the rewriting of a new Civil contract, one that was designed from the start to be an instrument of manipulation and control.

I bring these points up because I see that this threat is again becoming reality. Not in Germany, Europe, or anywhere else. I see it happening here.

History has a tale to tell about us too. I only have to look back to the Great Depression to understand just how dangerous these times really are. The Depression was in essence a breakdown of the Civil contract that had existed between the citizens and their government. The government promised prosperity, technological advances on a scale not know before, and general peace. The citizens by extension gave electoral support in return. But by 1932 that had broken down. The economy was for the most part in ruins, unemployment skyrocketed, and there were tales of stock market speculation by a chosen few that defied belief. Mass armies of dispossessed where marching on Washington, camping near to the White House. Hoovervilles were popping up everywhere. Civil Society as it had be known was near collapse even if many in the hinterlands did not see it that way. All the dispossessed needed was a charismatic leader. But no one came forward who was strong enough. Yes, there were many local or regional ones but not one on a large enough scale. Had one come forward, I feel we would be living in a vastly different country. F.D.R. knew what was happening and he did everything in his power to pull the country back from revolution. Many may debate that his alphabet soup of programs and the speed in which they were implemented were for the most part altruistic in nature. They may have been but they were also designed to stop the revolution that was about take hold. F.D.R. had a very good sense of reality.

So here we are again. With a president who is offering and implementing vast government programs and a group of people who are dead set against him doing it. In many ways the Tea Party Movement resembles many of the same in the past. They firmly believe that the Civil contract that they signed onto is for the most part broken. And they are fomenting revolution as a result. They have found politicians who pander, like in the past, to their sense of fear and frustration. They operate, for the most part, outside the accepted boundaries of political activity. They are an entity in and of themselves. And their cause has spread across the length and breath of the country. In a more dangerous way they have the ability to draw large crowds to events. They organize caravans to ride into towns and to seats of governments, protesting and even threatening as they go. The one thing they do not have is a charismatic national leader. Is there one who is ruthless and strong enough to manipulate, cajole, and ultimately control them? Who's to say. Can the unwritten civil contract that has existed for more that 230 years survive? It will be interesting to see. Personally I have no answers. I do though see the trends. And I have to say we are living in interesting times.

Transformation

When I was getting ready for bed I was thinking about why I have been in such a dark place lately and how it has affected my daily existence. I have, especially in the last two months, been very scared about just how dark I have become. I do wonder how I got here and why or whether the recent events of the last nine months or so were meant to bring me here, but they have; albeit not in a linear way. To say that this event, then that one, each happening, one after another, like marching ants,was God's work would just be too simplistic of an explanation. If I were it would be like to saying that a ray of light is just that; a ray of light. When in reality it is infinite bits of a rainbow of colors that have converged in the moment to become something rare and awe inspiring. The Pointallist's had it right when they applied a single dot of color on the canvass. That dot, when combined with a multitude of other dots, created a work of art, each dot representing a microcosm of the world around them.

I read somewhere once that nothing in this life is linear, we only happen to mark the passage of time that way.

My friends which I will not name have been extremely supportive. Listening with their heart open, loving me even when I couldn't find a way to love myself. Or more aptly put, have compassion and empathy for those parts of me who have kept me isolated from life since childhood. It isn't their fault though. Far from it. They, my Egos, those parts of me that are the intermediaries, had the best of intentions in the beginning. They wanted to protect me, they wanted me to survive the horror that was my childhood. They knew, quite rightly, that if they didn't put me away in a place that was far removed from the reality of my childhood, I would quite simply die, or go insane. The big E's were acting in my best interest.

The problem now is that they have never got that my childhood is over, that the very real threat that prompted them to act is now over.

The memories of my experiences however are, as they say, still for the most part being held onto by my tissues. Issues in the tissues is the old saying. The thought has occurred to me that the big E's may be protecting me just as fiercely from recovering the memories as they did from my experiencing the actual acts. I can't blame them if they are. Recovering memories for me is no walk in the park. They can be almost as bad as the actual experience, albeit decades removed. My friends who are closest to me have seen just how bad recovering them can be too.

This past weekend I was asked by my mentor to, each morning, get down on my knees and ask my Higher Power for help. As you can imagine I have been very reluctant to, shall I say, get down on my knees for the purpose of prayer; no pun intended. It is at the very least a gesture of letting go. Of asking for help. The big E's are not pleased. They feel that they do not need help. Nor for that matter guidance either. They know what is best; or so they think.

But in reality help is exactly what they and I need. I asked them tonight as I was getting ready for bed, do you really want to do this forever; to be on guard 24/7, no sleep, no rest, with not even a second of down time.

Crickets is all I heard. No answer. Not even an emmm. Just crickets.

I do understand why they do not want to answer. Or even acknowledge the question. They feel that they are doing this also in my best interest. And I suppose that they think they will die, that we will die, if they even entertain the thought of letting go, just for an instant. But they will not. Nor will I. This is the transforming power that recovery can be. That instead of death there will just be change, gradual, slow, plodding, change.

This was what I was thinking about tonight. How can the big E's get that a power greater than us can actually restore us to sanity. That standing down does not automatically mean death for them or for me. It won't be easy. But if we are at least willing to entertain the possibility, that will, shall I say, a non-linear step in the right direction.

Trust.

Trust in the transformative power of letting go and letting Goddess.

Defining Moments

I am quite baffled most of the time at the tenacity of my legacy's ability to control my daily existence. So much so that I have even started questioning the very reality that I seem to be living. I am under no illusion that this is a defining moment for me and that I am in a battle for my very life. It may be startling to some, maybe even most, that I have over the last 3 months become suicidal again. This is not to say that I have neglected my spiritual practices, or therapy, or any of the other recovery based programs in my life. I haven't. But I have been faced with the stark reality of what recovery means for me in real terms and what kind of life I eventually may have. And that view is not what I had expected. Nor is it one I had even hoped for. Lately I have taken firm steps to detach from all expectations, of letting go of any hope for a better life or a different one. I have done this because I have been engaged in a deadly cycle of having hope, having it crushed, then spiraling into deep depression over and over again. I have been utterly frustrated and lost in this cycle for months now not knowing where to turn or what to do. Being stuck in this cycle questions the very tenets of what recovery promises. For instance, will I be able to be present in my relationships whether it be friends or partners? Will I be able to do simple things like get on a plane without having panic attacks or memory flash backs? Will I be able to recover my sense of taste or smell? Will I be able to sleep through the night uninterrupted? Or at a basic level, will I have the ability to feel vulnerable again?

During these last few weeks I have had to come face to face with my legacy without blinking, and the unflinching view has been a sobering one. I am a very visual person at the best of times. I think this is because I love art so much. Over the years I have studied art, graduated with an Art History degree, and generally love to view art in all of its aspects. On occasion I have even dabbled in it. Certainly my garden is a testament to my artistic eye for color, design, and placement of form. I do believe too that this language of art has given my core the ability to speak to me in ways that it was not able to before. In ways that he adult me can understand. Today was one of those days. During my therapy session I saw myself alone in a room with a heavy matte gray colored steel door between me and the outside world. As I felt into what it was like to be there, I realized it was a safe and protected space but sparse. The room was not devoid of warmth though. It had a familiarity to it that was comforting and welcoming. As I looked around I began to understand that the me who inhabits this room is in fact the real me. And that the other me, the adult me, the one that exists outside in the world is really just a very good likeness of that "real me".

I am beginning to tap into a great deal of compassion for the me that is in this room, compassion for why I found it necessary to build this fortress and why I still find it necessary to inhabit it. This room was at one time my sanctuary from the reality of being abused, an extreme safe place to escape the extreme nature of the abuse being perpetrated on me. But now it has become something different. I do understand on an intellectual level that this room is no longer needed but little Stevie does not. He still thinks that the insanity of his childhood still exists just outside the steel door. That to unlock just one of the many locks is tantamount to experiencing horrific things all over again . At that moment my therapist asked me to sit with the possibility of considering going near to the door. I could feel the panic rising uncontrollably from deep within me. It took me a while to ground myself but in that time I realized what I am up against. That this life I had constructed so many decades ago is still controlling my very existence.

Now I am faced with the reality of what these visuals mean for me. What they mean for my chances for recovery.

I am at a defining moment in my life. I have let go of all expectations, surrendered to my reality, accepted that this room may be where I live out the rest of my life. But I have also begun to understand that the adult me is the only bridge to the outside world that Stevie has right now and that I must not let go of that connection. I do believe he trusts me and has for some time now otherwise I do not think he would have let go of so many memories. I believe that he knows on some level I can handle them and that I continue to be able to. But this relationship of passivity, of me being his conduit for letting go is changing, changing into one of activity, of a two way conversation, a conversation where I somehow find a way to become his agent of healing and he mine.

I have an immense amount of empathy and compassion for little Stevie. I know first hand what he has gone through. I hope too that he has empathy and compassion for me as well. For I think he knows on some level that it is as difficult for me to live in two worlds without inhabiting one as it is for him to live out his life in that little room.

Baffled and confused

Yet again I am sitting here writing in the middle of the night, in the quiet of my apartment. The only noise I hear is the hum of my refrigerator and the clicking of the keys. Lars is asleep at the foot of the bed, his head resting on my feet as I type. In some ways it is very comforting to hear and see the familiar and in other ways the fact that I am up in the middle of the night again, experiencing it all, is just another sign of my shear desperation.

I am yet again faced with the cunning and baffling nature of the legacy of my abusive past. Yet again I am trying desperately to remain grounded in the face of overwhelming odds. I have reached a point in my life where I am feeling utterly lost and confused. It is really amazing to me how in one month, one week, sometimes even in one day I can lose all perspective on my recovery and my life. This is an all to common occurrence for me lately. In some moments it is just the promise of what recovery means that is baffling to me; confusing me to no end. But sometimes it is the reality of that promise that rattles my brain, making illusion reality and vice versa.

Lately though I have begun feeling like a dog with an invisible collar, stuck in a yard with an invisible fence. The promise of my recovery or its illusion/reality states that there is no fence nor is there a collar. That I am capable of moving outside the yard. That the whole world is there, waiting like a pearl, for me to grab hold of, so that I can experience it's beauty and awe. Then in a cruel twist of fate, when I start to truly believe, the illusion becomes reality and then reforms as illusion again, all in a flash of a second, all as I begin venturing out, testing the boundaries of my existence. Holding up the promise as I go, I wonder, is it really an illusion or is it reality? Then once I get to the boundaries of my territory illusion shifts into reality and I get shocked by the electric fence that I have been promised does not exist. In some ways I feel that this exercise in futility on my part is all a very cruel joke but in others ways it just seems very very sad.

I can say with all honesty that I have worked my ass off trying to recover from my abusive childhood. Everyone who truly knows me can affirm that I have pulled out all the stops, tried common and not so common methods, all in an effort to regain my life and attain some degree of happiness. I have tried singular things and/or combined multiple programs, attained a degree of spirituality, found and fostered a connection to a power greater than myself, all in the name of recovery. But here I sit, in the middle of the night, as baffled and confused as ever. It is times like these that it all seems for naught. That this promise I have been led to believe exists for me is in fact just another myth, another illusion, like a mirage in the middle of the desert.

It feels especially true in the face of yet another failed dating experience, one where I have learned some very sobering things about myself. Things that I was not ready or prepared to deal with.

It is now at this very moment that I am wondering; is it really worth all of the effort.

Am I really ever going to get out of this dam yard?

At this point from where I sit I am having my doubts.

It had occurred to me as I was writing in my journal earlier that maybe it is a perception problem on my part. That maybe it is just all about me needing to accept that fact of the yard, the collar, and the electric fence. That maybe I just need to make my little piece of territory the best I can. That maybe it is really just about finding happiness within what I have readily available to me now. That the real promise of a fenceless yard, where I will be able to roam freely, is in fact just an illusion; at least in my case.

Maybe that is where my real problem lies.

Or then maybe not.

That is at it's very base the cunning and very baffling nature of my ongoing recovery, It is that fundamental question; what is reality and what is just an illusion.

I can say at this moment, in the quiet of the night, I haven't a clue in the world.

Death by Hanging

It was revealed yesterday in the police inquest that British fashion designer Alexander McQueen hung himself. Suicide was the unofficial finding. When his death was announced on the morning of February 11th, the world was shocked. The Industry in particular was devastated to hear of his death. McQueen was enormously talented, taking risks few others did both in design and presentation. He was known as the bad boy of the fashion world. As one of the articles about him said, " he seemed to sense that the fashion industry needed it's buttons pushed." And push he did. But he had a dark side too. One that was always present in his work. Lagerfeld said it, "There was always some attraction to death...." After which he concluded, "Who knows, perhaps after flirting with death too often, death attracts you."

Maybe it did and then maybe it didn't. In some ways though Lagerfeld's opinion just sounds a bit overly simplistic for my liking.

I suppose that over time more will come out about his private life and his history, maybe even enough for the world to draw some concrete conclusions. Then maybe not. I'm sure that there also will be at least one unauthorized tell all book, written in haste, drawing conclusions from fog and mirror but mostly from innuendo; designed to sell solely based on it's sensationalism. And for me that will be the very saddest of things, that he will have, in my opinion, died in vain; without a true, full, and honest societal discussion about the causes of his Dark Side. And to be quite frank I would not be at all surprised if that is the eventual outcome.

But that doesn't mean I can't start some dialogue going here though.

Now I can't speak for British societal trends as I am not a citizen, but I can speak though from an amateur's point of view about our society. We are a nation founded and based for the most part on the Protestant tradition, and not a mainline one either. It may seem that way now, but back then the Anabaptists and others who fled England were the true religious radicals of their day. They challenged convention thinking and they were heavily persecuted for it. Fleeing to the New World they brought with them all of their extreme ideas; and it is those very principles; pull yourself up by your bootstraps, family and church loyalty, the Protestant work ethic, among others; that have found their way into the bedrock of our societal thinking. The more treacherous of their ideas, the ones that have been honed over the centuries by subsequent preachers and politicians, have become most prevalent in our present lives. Many of us complain and are baffled by the insane ramblings of and seductive power that is the Religious Right, not understanding the whys and wherefores, of such a seemingly strange phenomenon. But really, the whole Reagan/Bush thing, it's just another Awakening in a long line of such events that started as far back as the 1730s. So what does this have to do with a person's Dark Side?

EVERYTHING.

People's dark sides I feel find there very roots in societal trends such as ours and their roots can be traced deep into the insidious nature of childhood trauma and mental illness. Family Values is just such an example.

Things such as emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, alcohol and drug addictions, and depression; all of which exists within our families and society contradicts the very premise that our society is rooted in. What are the three old sayings; the crazy aunt lives in the attic out of view of everyone because she is an embarrassment to the family, never ever divulge family secrets, and the pedophile is the guy over there that is hiding in the bushes. We as nation may laugh at the first one but it is sadly still true albeit with a twist. Now the mentally ill are just abandoned to the streets, at least here in California they are. More seriously though is the second because that is what gives strength and credibility to the shear insanity of the third. I can bet good money that, if asked, the vast majority of people will describe the typical sexual abuser as a gay man in his 40's or 50's who hides in the bushes waiting for unsuspecting kids to walk by. This is because we as family members do not stand up and say, wait that is just not true in my case. At its basic level it is the very nature of not identifying who the real abusers are that perpetuates the abuse. It is a proven fact that 90% of all abusers are immediate or extended family members of either gender and/or friends of the family.

Now I am not saying that Alexander McQueen was a survivor of sexual abuse although I would not be surprised if he was going by what little I have read about him. What was more evident was he did suffer from some sort of acute depression. This was prominent in his work, in the style of his designs, and especially in his presentation. His Spring 2010 show was masterful at showing this and it was organic and very very edgy. To me it seems that McQueen's way of coming to terms with his demons was to embrace them, give them voice, and invite them fully into his designing existence. That was the uniqueness that made him a fashion icon.

I think we all try to find ways to deal with are respective dark sides. Some just denial it's existence, others self medicate, while still others find death as the only real answer. I was crafty. I tried all three. My first attempt at suicide came when I was 17 years old. From my late teens to well into my 20's I drank, and heavily, all the while experimenting with mild drugs, all of which I stopped abruptly in the mid to late 80's. Denial would become my path of choice and it worked well for me not that I was aware I was using it. Now I'm not saying that mine was a free ride. It wasn't. In most cases when things are pushed down in one place they just pop up somewhere else and that was true for me. By the time 2004 rolled around there were way too many holes to plug in my dike for me and the dam just burst. Since then I have be trying to learn with varying degrees of success like Alexander McQueen how to coexist with my dark side.

Cracking the Marble

There's an old saying that goes something like this; a sculptor can hit a block of marble 99 times in the same place with no apparent results; but when he hits for the 100th time, a huge chuck falls away revealing the beginnings of a beautiful work of art. In many ways this is how I see my recovery at this time of my life. I am utterly frustrated with the lack of any real progress from hitting the marble over and over again, yet at the same time I continue to lovingly hit the block of marble hoping that soon something will change. I will say though that lately I have been noticing infinitesimal hairline cracks developing on the face of my block. And I can say that this is why I have become so angry that I have had to, in essence, put my hammer down and walk away; and not by choice either.

This fundamental change has been brewing for some time now and is something that is being imposed upon me from powers greater than me that I can neither control nor influence. The Goddess knows I have try though, and from he very beginning too. For the past 2 1/2 months I have talked, complained, cajoled, and even proposed an alternative path, all in an effort to protect my health and my ability to use my hammer. But alas it has been all for nought.

At this point I suppose it would be appropriate to reveal the nature of this power but I think I will forgo that. Also, I think I will forgo explaining the gory day to day details either. Let's just say that neither of these things are the real issue for me anyways. The real issue for me is my mounting frustration at not seeing any verifiable progress in my day to day recovery albeit with infinitesimal cracks appearing. It's not like things haven't changed for me over time. They have. I can unequivocally say that I have less anxiety, more strength, and more agility than I did two years ago; but at the same time I can also say that these moments are still fleeting. However, I can also say that I have learned how to deal with the day to day effects of my abuse as it surfaces. I how know how to ground myself in the moment in very real ways and as effective as that is it doesn't really help in a long term sense; especially in light of these last few months. I can say with all honesty that these last few months have not been easy as many of my previous blog entries can attest. Let's be frank. These last few months have tested me in ways that I have never been tested before in my adult life. Yet I am sitting here, functioning and doing all the things that I know I should be doing.

So what is the real issue here?

And more importantly why does it exist?

I suspect that in part this is a lesson from my Higher Power showing me in a very real and concrete way that I am a much stronger person than I think I am. I suspect that part of the issue here is also the continuing process of my Higher Power's dismantling of my insane defenses; defenses that I created as a result of my childhood experiences. In addition I feel that this stripping away is changing and will continue to change my most basic ideas of what my recovery will look like going forward.

All in an attempt I feel to give me the necessary tools for the next phase of what is to come.

Walking away from my trainer has been particularly difficult for me at this time as we were just starting to work on a very vulnerable area for me, my pelvic floor. For the last 16 months both my former trainer and my present one have worked with me to build core strength. And all through that time I have not even been able to feel my pelvic floor let alone work on it. However I don't want to mislead by this statement. I really thought I was. In doing my daily regiment of exercises I thought I was targeting all of the core muscle groups; but I wasn't. At least that is until the last month. It was about that time that I started questioning in my mind whether there was more to it, a deeper level that I wasn't working. I remember asking my trainer about it too. That was about the time that the floor started opening up to me. Shortly after that my trainer and I started actively feeling into that most vulnerable of areas. In hindsight I feel that in many ways my ability to "feel" that area is the byproduct of my relationship with my trainer. He has, like my trainer before him, gone to extraordinary lengths to create for me a safe space in which to do my work. And I love him for it. Just as I love my former trainer. In very real terms they did not have to do it either, to create that space. They also did not have to open up to me, being vulnerable and trusting me, but they did, and in fundamental ways too. This for me is the beautiful thing about life at its most basic. It is that amazing and fascinating process of being present for another and trusting that they will be in return; with all of the baggage that inevitably comes with. I struggle with this every minute of every day as many of my friends can attest. For me, being present in my body in any fundamental way is very very scary. But open they did and I in return.

It is not surprising either that I was actually able to feel below my pelvic floor during therapy this past week. And what a frightening experience that was too. It didn't happen either as a matter of course or agenda. My therapy sessions are way too organic for that. It happened out of my therapist's innate sense of intuition. He just said "place your hands at the points that hurt the most around your pelvic area." Doing that was hard enough. Then he said "start sending healing light into the area." That is when the visuals started. My pelvic floor appeared in my minds eye revealing a waste land of arid desert. Broken and barren of all life. As I continued to send light my pelvic floor began to open up. At that point the horrific visuals started. Groups of humans began to appear, all in contorted poses, writhing in excruciating pain, mouths twisted, bodies decomposing. At first I remember mumbling "It's all too much, the pain is too much." But I stayed with it as long as I could. Eventually though I had to shut down in an attempt to ground myself. I was shaken by what I saw. It isn't easy to come face to face with that amount of pain. Looking back though, I feel that my brain probably had no real way of communicating the reality of that pain except to drawn upon my memories of art that I have either seen or studied. I remember saying to my therapist that it was like Dante's Hell, circles upon circles burrowing deeper and deeper into the earth filled with people suffering the most horrific pain and agony.

A sobering reality of yet another layer of my pain as the result of my childhood sexual abuse.

This is why I am feeling that the recovery tools I have come to rely on in the past are just not suited for this next phase of my life. And maybe that is why I am being forced to strip away most all that I have put into place over the last few years, so I can be free to create, to think outside the box, all in an effort to go back to that arid wasteland that is my pelvic floor. I told my therapist at the end of our session that my exercise of sending healing light into my pelvic floor was like letting a drop of water fall onto the Sahara Desert and expecting it to somehow nourish the ground. I told him that it seemed like a wholly futile exercise to me. He of course disagreed.

What is that other old saying; from tiny acorns mighty oak grow.

How did I get here

This is a very surreal moment in my life. I feel as if I just woke up in the midst of an alternative reality, a reality that is at its base fundamentally different yet essentially the same. Looking around, everything seems to be the same, like my apartment, my garden, and the neighborhood I live in. The same goes for the car I drive, the clothes I wear, and the job I go to most every day. However, none of it feels right. Nor is it the same.

This kind of reminds me of an episode of The Outer Limits. I can hear the intro now; there is nothing wrong with your television set...do not attempt to adjust the picture...we will control the horitzontal...we will control the vertical.... This is the way my life feels in the moment and no amount of shaking my head or rubbing my eyes will change it. It really is very disorientating for me and I don't know what to make of it.

In my quieter moments, when I turn the volume down, I can actually hear my own voice mumbling over and over again, WTF.

I remember once many years ago a guy saying that each moment of our life is in reality a unique convergence of energies that shine bright, focused into a single powerful point of light.

Hmmmm. Sounds to me like the guy had been eating a few too many special brownies.

Yet, I suppose, if I think about it maybe it could be actually true; even without the aid of.....

I think I would prefer the brownies instead.

So I guess it's time to ask, how did I get here?

Good question.

There's a game I like to play sometimes. It's called; If someone would have told me. It goes something like this:

If someone would have told me 10 years ago that in January 2010 I would be sitting here blogging about my life I would have said, your crazy.

If someone would have told me 5 years ago that my precious baby girl would be dead, I would have said your crazy and cruel to even suggest that.

If someone had told me 1 year ago that I would now be privy to knowledge about myself that would forever change my life and my perceptions of myself, I would have probably never spoken to that person again.

Yet here I am.

Exactly at that point.

Sometimes, I have to wonder just how wicked our creators sense of humor really is.

Sometimes, I even wonder if they are sitting out there, somewhere in the cosmos, laughing their collective asses off, saying how funny is that.

From where I sit; not so funny.

So where do I go from here and more importantly what do I do with it all?

Hell if I know.