Dissociating

I have major issues with my memory.  Now, at times it's comical.  I do stupid things, like I leave my keys in random places, like the freezer, or put my wallet in the fridge.  I mix up my words and say stupid things.  It's kind of the joke in my house.  I'm a flake.

But the reality is often more frustrating.  I completely forget where I am going or why.  I totally forget entire events or conversations.  I can't remember what the hell I'm talking about in the middle of a conversation with somebody, or how I ended up in the conversation in the first place.

I have a dissociative disorder.  Or so my doctor says.  And no, it's not "multiple personality," because trust me, I almost got up and left her office when she said that whole "dissociative" word.  I don't go for that.  It's not that I'm a total flake.  I mean, I'm a flake--it's always been part of my personality.  But the blank spots?  The lost time?  That's not normal, apparently.  I'm still coming to terms with what that means.  I really had a frustrating time this week.  See, it gets worse if I'm upset, or if there is stuff going on, if I'm particularly stressed...  So this week I lost the saddle soap that I was supposed to use to clean a pair of boots before I listed them on ebay.  Only I didn't think I lost it.  I never even knew I had it.  Last time I recalled that saddle soap was months ago, sitting on a shelf.  My husband, on the other hand, told me we had an entire conversation about it, during which he handed it to me, along with a brush and the boots, which I put somewhere.  I remember thinking about the boots, because I knew I was going to clean them, but I did not recall this conversation.  Thus, I tore apart the shelf in my living room, looking for the saddle soap that I knew was there.  It had to be, because that was where I'd left it--where I'd last seen it.  When I said something to my husband, he told me we'd had this conversation, and I actually got mad.  This isn't the first time THAT has happened.  I hate being told we've had conversations or interactions that I have no recollection of.  They just DIDN'T happen, in my mind.  It's not even a matter of not remembering, they REALLY didn't happen for me!   He doesn't fight me on this, he knows how this works by now, and usually walks away shaking his head.

This morning I found the saddle soap and the brush.  Inside the boots, in the bucket where I keep the stuff I am prep'ing for Ebay.  


I get scared, insecure, when this happens.  See, this is only a couple of lost moments in time.  But there are many of these moments for me.  Some of them weeks long, going all the way back--childhood, teens, and beyond and they still occur.

My doctor's explanation?  It always goes back to the sexual trauma.  It is an early learned behavior, a mechanism I learned to cope with things that I didn't know how to deal with, or didn't want to deal with.  As I grew older, it became easier and easier for my mind to slip into this mode, and now, I am more likely to do it for moments under stress, fatigue, distress...  So two friends dying in one month would explain why so  many little conversations are lost this week, I would guess.  But do you know how creepy it is to think that my mind just shuts off and autopilots like that?  That I'm there, but I'm not?  "Lights are on, but nobody's home!"

What a crock...  I'm so ready to be done with all this shit.  If therapy is the way I need to go, and diving in is the only way, then so be it.  I'm there.  I'm trying.  But...  This has to end somewhere, right?  I mean, it obviously hasn't been working for me ignoring it my whole life, because I still had those moments in my younger days--I just liked to combine them with partying and call them "blackouts" and "bad choices" back then!  So much easier to explain them away with alcohol, ya know?

On another subject, I totally missed my therapy this morning because the truck was not up for the long drive.  Which sucks, because my mind is in hyperdrive today.  I coulda used some shrinking.  :)  

Breaking my silence

I've been silent for a while now, with more going on in my mind than I could really put to words.  I get that way sometimes.  I shut the world out, shut down, and go AWOL, other than my facebook posts that let everybody know I'm alive and kicking.  It usually follows a Wednesday therapy session, and I go into shut-down mode. (And, guess what! tomorrow's Wednesday!  And it's a two appointment Wednesday!  Yippee!) Then the migraines come and get me.  And I really ignore the world.   I then get worried, yet unanswered, calls from my mother, annoyed messages from others, and understanding--but wistful--messages from my sister.  Two weeks can go by in the blink of an eye!   See, I do this hermit thing.  No, it's more like ...  Did you see Nim's Island?  Jodi Foster's character?  Yeah...  like that, but not quite as bad--I have yet to break down and do that crazy African dance she does.  YET--it does look like fun, though.  But if I'm not careful, I could easily slip into that agoraphobic, bat-shit crazy, scared of her own shadow lady.  These are the side effects of not dealing with and barely even acknowledging childhood trauma and abuse shit until your thirties.  Don't do it, people.  The past few years, getting into counselling, have probably been the best and worst thing I could have done--now that I'm in a position to do it, and feel "safe" to do it.  But at the same time, the falling to pieces in my head thing--not cool.  And crashing cars, violent neighbors and restraining orders, hiding from psycho family members--it just adds to the pretty picture that the past few years have painted.  And we all know how I feel about winter anyway.  I don't drive, I don't like to leave my house (and never without my husband--the world is just too scary a lot of days)...  I like the world inside my house.  It feels secure.  The dogs and the full gun cabinet help, I suppose.  :)  During the day, it's me, my baby boy, the dogs, whatever activities and chores we've got to keep us busy, and the evenings and weekends, we're generally all together.  Really, really hoping moving out of the state helps with some of my security and lack of safety feelings.  Miles and miles of open land, with no bad connections to it really has a strong appeal.

On a good note, today is a celebration of my favorite food in the entire world.  Happy National Peanut Butter Day, Everybody!

So.  I'm back!  Expect more from me.  Big news going on in the Pit Bull world that needs to be shared with everybody.  BSL is being taken on in Florida and Ohio, and Best Friends is behind it!  Woo-hoo!  

Target Is ‘Down’ With Down Syndrome: 5 Things Target Said By Saying Nothing At All

Target Is ‘Down’ With Down Syndrome: 5 Things Target Said By Saying Nothing At All

To Evie

Earlier this week, as I was packaging up boxes to be mailed out for ebay sales, I was listening to the news.  That is how I got the ...shocking, for lack of better word, news that a woman I know, a friend, a mentor, a teacher, had been brutally murdered--about 6 months ago.  The man she was living with had doused her in gasoline, set her on fire, and then set himself on fire.  She died three days later.  He survived, and is only now "well enough" to be arraigned for the murder.

I heard the name.  I heard Boston.  I heard Warren.  Her full name--Evelyn Spodnik.  My head picked up, a question or maybe a connection forming.  Then I heard "reading teacher" and "Holderness Elementary School," and a strangled scream escaped my mouth, scaring my daughter.

To me, she was Evie.  She was the hippie reading teacher who always had a smile on her face.  I was in my final semester of college, my student teaching semester--the toughest semester of all.  As a single mother in college, I had worked hard to get there.  That semester, everything that could go wrong, just seemed to.  I was living off my savings at that point (and there wasn't much), because there was no way I could work AND student teach, so when my car broke down and had to go into the shop, it was catastrophic.  Evie had a hug for me and reassured me that she would pick me up and drop me off while my car was in the shop.  And she did.  In her little car, she showed up at my apartment with a smile and chattered away the rest of the drive to school.  Christmas came along shortly after that, and Evie presented me with a bag of gifts for my daughter from "Santa."  In the teacher's lounge, Evie always asked how my lessons were going, asked if I needed any help, and would listen to my successes, and commiserate with me on my failures, which some days felt so much bigger than my successes.

Evie taught me some important things...  See, she was the reading specialist.  She worked a lot with the kids who needed extra help in reading.  She worked with them one on one, or in small groups.  But the kids never, ever seemed to feel isolated, or feel like they were "stupid."  No, these kids felt special, and were so excited to go see Ms. Spodnik!  They did fun stuff with her, special stuff.  And they learned.  And they were proud of themselves.

But Evie also spent time with some of the most advanced kids.  She said to me once, and I will never, ever, forget this:  "You see, Laura, you teach to the middle of the class.  That is where most of the kids are.  Then there are the children that you worry about, and there are specialists that you call in to help those kids.  And then there's that upper crust of kids, the really advanced ones, that you just don't even think about or worry about, because they just get it.  It's just how it happens--the way the system works, and as a classroom teacher, there's really no way around that every day.  But they need some special focus, too.  I try to make that my job when I can."  

On my way to see my doctors this morning we drove past a burned down house in Canaan.  It threw me off.  My whole visit with my talk therapy revolved around Evie this morning.  How something like that could happen.  How I can't get the nightmarish images out of my head.  I just keep going back to it.  What it must have been like--what she must have felt, thought...  the fear, the panic, the pain, everything.  That it took three whole days for her to die.  How I hoped she had somehow escaped her body during those days.  How I didn't get to say goodbye.  How I didn't even KNOW until 6 months after the fact.  Trying to remember the last time I saw her--wasn't it in the grocery store, where she remarked how big Athena had gotten and how handsome Nolyn was?  Wondering how I could memorialize her, say goodbye, get my closure.  I suppose I will memorialize her by never forgetting those words of wisdom.  By never forgetting her kind heart, her smile.

Oh, Evie...  I am sad that this world doesn't have that happy, kind-hearted hippie in it anymore.  I am sad that no more children will have you to help them with their reading.  I am sad that I will never run into you again and have an on-the-fly chat, and those always there "let's get together sometime" that never came...  because sometime would always be there, wouldn't it.  But it wasn't.  I am sad that your faith in humankind was your undoing.

I am happy that I knew you, Evie.  I am so happy that you were there to guide me in my learning.  I am happy that Athena met you, and remembers you.  I am happy that you passed on some of your hard-earned wisdom.  I am happy that you lived with kindness and faith in the best in humankind right up until the end.  Rest in peace, my friend, and know that you made a difference in this world.

My new oatmeal bread recipe

scribbled on the front of my microwave as I went along--I will let you know tonight how it turned out  (hopefully it's good, because I made enough dough for about three or four loaves)!

1 cup molasses
2 cups milk
3 1/2 cups water
3 tbsp yeast
2 tbsp salt
1/2 cup canola oil
2 cups oatmeal (already cooked and cooled)

mix it all up in a (very large) bowl with a whisk.

Then grab a very strong spoon and add in about 10 cups of bread flour, until it gets hard to mix with a spoon.  It's oatmeal bread, so you really shouldn't have to knead it.  Then let it sit at room temperature until it rises, and then drops.  (This will take anywhere from 2-4 hours)

(Now the part I haven't gotten to yet myself...)
Break off about a 1 1/2 lb hunk, (volleyball size?) Shape it as you wish, pop it into your pan, let it rise about an hour, preheat your oven to 350 degrees, put a broiler pan with water in the bottom of your oven to keep it moist.  When all that is done, slash the top of your bread, polish off the top of your bread with a few oatmeal flakes, sunflower seeds, whatever strikes your fancy to make it look pretty, pop it in the oven until it's golden brown, firm and beautiful (I would say 45-50 minutes?), let it cool a bit, and then, eat it with gusto.  Or maybe a little butter.

Like I said, I haven't gotten to that part yet.  So don't blame me if it is awful.  I totally made the recipe up.  :)  But I bake bread all the time and never manage to follow a recipe well and it always turns out delicious, so it's not like I'm a total beginner, either.

***update:  When the bread had risen and dropped, it was a very heavy, wet dough.  So I chose to forego putting a pan of water in to cook with it.  It would not need any help being a moist bread.  It also ended being a very LOFTY rising bread, and rose WAY out of the pan (and down the pan, and onto the oven floor...) WHILE baking, while still being a very heavy bread.  So...  fill the pan only halfway or less before letting it rise and baking.  BUT, all that aside, it was absolutely DELICIOUS.  Wonderfully, beautifully, fillingly delicious.  Definitely a winner.  :)   The next loaf will hopefully be prettier, too, and maybe worth taking a picture of! ***


****second loaf update:  I added more flour tonight, so it wasn't as wet and sticky.  Then I put it in a cake pan, making a round, artisan loaf instead of a traditional "bread" loaf.  I still did not put it in with a pan of water--no need.  It still came out perfect, and I presented it to company who not only agreed, but went back for more!  Now if you decide to make it, my biggest recommendations are:  add more flour than I originally indicated--as much as you need to make it feel "right."  And oil and flour your pan liberally; because it's a sticky dough, this is kind of a necessity.  Cutting back on the molasses might help that, but I don't think I would want to sacrifice that flavor at all.  


And here is the picture I promised:

Georgia on my mind

Georgia was one of Michael Vick's fighting dogs.  A pit bull.  In fact, she was one of his prized, top fighting pit bull.  A winning dog.  A "TOP DOG."

Then, her fighting days were over.  Time for her to bring in the money another way.  She needed to make some prize winnin' babies.  Now, after fighting for so long, she certainly didn't know how to be friendly with other dogs, so some lovey-dovey breedin' wasn't going to happen.  No, Georgia's teeth had to be completely removed, surgically and professionally (what kind of surgeon or veterinarian, I ask, would agree to this?), from her mouth.  Now the issue of submission, because a female dog must submit to act of copulation.  Well, that might have been a problem, because in amongst Michael the Dick's confiscated items was this particular piece, which was designed to strap a female dog to, rendering her helpless to be ...well, raped.  Yes, raped.  Why is it any less a rape because she is a dog?  She was forcefully, against her will, and with absolutely no way to fight back or defend herself, raped, repeatedly, and forced to conceive.  Then her puppies were sold off, for upwards of 10 grand apiece.

Now, is it any wonder than shelters called her un-rehabilitatable?  That she seemed like a "mean" dog?  That her aggressive nature seemed to prevail?  Her whole life had been spent either fighting to live, or being abused in horrible ways, and losing perhaps the one thing that her instincts were telling her to love and nurture over and over.  And all this being done to her by HUMANS.  By MEN.

When I first heard Georgia's story, I cried.  Like a baby, I sobbed.  I wanted to grab and protect her.  I wanted to bring her home.  I would have flown out in a heartbeat to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary and adopted her on the spot.  I instantly felt a deep, protective love for her.  She has come a long way, that girl.  With love, patience, training, and time, they have brought out a beautiful girl who is learning to trust and love.  She plays and grins, she's earned her canine good citizen award.  She wears a bucket on her head and loves the rain.  But I have children, and I have two other dogs.  Two big strikes against me, as a potential owner.  She needs a home without other dogs, and with no children, they say, and I can understand why, and it makes sense for her.  My own issues of trust, my own issues with men, with people, and my way of attaching to dogs would make me a perfect companion to Georgia, I just know it--and if it was just me, you can bet we would already be together!  I feel attached to her in such a strange way.  I hope she finds a home--I hope somebody else connects with her, and she connects with somebody else.  If not, I know she will live out a happy life at Best Friends, and if she stays there, you can just bet I will be spending time with her when I travel to go do my volunteer time there in the next year!

Please check Georgia's profile, and the profile of hundreds of other ready to adopt animals by clicking Best Friends

(shown here with trainer, John Garcia)

I love you, Georgia!  

Note:  It is important to know that Georgia is not the only dog that this was done to.  There were many, many others.  One dog, Merrill, is court ordered to never leave Best Friends Sanctuary, because she was considered so "dangerous."  Other dogs have been rehabilitated and adopted into loving homes.  The damage Michael Vick and others have done is long lasting, not only to the dogs they directly hurt, but to bully breeds as a whole, perpetuating a stereotype and the myth of the "vicious Pit Bull."  While Vick "did his time," one can argue that it was not nearly enough for the damage he caused.  

The Fearsome Threesome

My baby and my bullies in their hoodies--don't they all look fearsome?

Well, perhaps you SHOULD fear the toddler!!!

LOVE THIS!!!

I love this entire site, but this particular post really got me!  I am going to be making one of these when we get to Wyoming--I'm gonna need a stargazing seat!  It's made out of old wooden pallets!  Click over and check out this site, it's all about upcycling, and new ways to use old things, "trash"--one of my favorite things!  So many awesome ideas.  

Two steps backwards, one step forward?

As we go into a new year, I reflect on the past few years and the changes that have come into my life.  Good, bad--there have been MANY.  I graduated college, I turned 30 (and finally admitted it), I started therapy--and truly committed to it, I engaged in a meaningful relationship, I had a baby, I got MARRIED... I used to be very much on my own, just me and Athena, never letting anybody else in, rarely showing any weakness or need to anybody.  Certainly not getting involved.  :)  Too complicated, too messy, and way too risky.  Now I'm an oozing bundle of love and cuddles.  Oh yeah.  I'm all about the love.


With all these things...  it might seem to some like I've moved forward.  Yet, I can tell you I have moved backwards in so many ways.  I have become almost cripplingly afraid of things.  I am depressed.  I have migraines all the time.  Sometimes I am so angry that I want to do unimaginable damage.  So sad I want to disappear.  My blood pressure is often through the roof.  I have nightmares;  I have always had the nightmares, but now they are somehow...  worse--like they're alive, somehow.  With confronting my past, releasing the demons that I held captive for so long, I have let loose a host of fears and paranoias that sometimes seem to hold me hostage.  At times I am afraid to leave my house, for fear of what could happen.  Crashing my car twice in a year didn't help, and now I'm scared to drive.  Anything new that happens compounds my fears or adds new ones.  My doctor has me on a regimen of medications, from prozac to clonazipam for depression and anxiety to ambien to help me sleep without nightmares (well, maybe fewer?) and topomax to help control my mood swings.  It got so bad for a while that I had to emergency wean Nolyn and start taking Lithium (which was BAD, BAD, BAD for me; not a pleasant experience at all). I see both my doctors--talk therapy and med therapy--every week, making Wednesdays bad days for me, because I hate dealing with all this crap.  I can't work, because I panic over the weirdest things, and I freeze up and just can't function.  Luckily, I love being home with Nolyn and the dogs, and we manage to make that work for us.

So the question is...  when it comes to dealing with abuse in your past, and confronting it head on for really the first time ever....  Do I need to go backwards in order to go forwards?  My doctor doesn't think I'm really going backwards.  She thinks that after being so closed off and "in control" (which she says I wasn't really, and my behaviors proved that I wasn't, and they were all a cover), that this is really "healthy".   How it can be healthy to fall to pieces is beyond me.  And how it can be healthy for my family to see this happen is really beyond me.  I try to keep them abreast of the situation, and I especially talk to my oldest about what is going on, so that she knows, at least in broad terms, what is happening.  I don't want her to be damaged by my own healing process, ya know?

It is time.  I know that.  But it is so damn debilitating.  It is hard not to hate.  No, it is impossible to not hate right now.  I imagine that will also be part of my  healing process, learning to not hate, and learning to ...forgive?  For my own sanity.  For my own health.  For the sake of my family.  ...sigh...

One step forward.  One baby step forward.  Two giant steps backwards.

Here's to a new year, and here's to healing.