I just got super fuckin’ angry at my therapist for telling me not to talk about my trauma in front of the other house mates. “You have an exceptionally awful situation. It can be triggering to others.”
So they can talk about theirs. They can be open and free. But mine is too weird. Really? Really guys?! Sixty-fuckin-thousand-dollars for this shit??
You know what that feels like? It feels like my Dad...and Mom...and older brother...telling me not to tell...because I’m dangerous and unstable...and I could hurt people...and I’m a bad person for being a wreckless virginal whore who’s trying to survive while he’s raping me every night. THAT’S what it felt like.
And I know how to be sensitive to peoples’ needs. I’m not a fuckin’ sociopath. I have empathy. I can tell when people are upset. But NOT WHEN THEY HIDE IT...because they HAVE NO LIFE SKILLS...because they REFUSE TO GROW UP...and will never TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THEMSELVES.
Anger and rage = orange and red. Panic and terror = bright yellow. Shame, guilt, dirtiness, nihilism, helplessness, hopelessness = grayish purple.
Obviously I’m feeling resentful that my Dad held my younger brother’s survival over my head...my whole life. Even when I was 29, and informed my folks I was moving in with my husband prior to marriage… Even then, my father scolded me, displaying a typed-up outline of bible verses and bullet points. Printed. Crisply folded in his shirt front pocket. He followed up with interogating religious questions about my “disobedience.” My mom followed his lead with disapproving comments about my unwillingness to have children. Bob thought the whole thing was awkwardly hilarious. Gotta love a guy like that. Oblivious. Good at jig saw puzzles.
“What do you think this type of behavior will do to A—? What type of an example are you setting? What you are doing is selfish and destructive.” I calmly informed my father that A—, as far as I understood, was an adult...24-years-old...living on the East Coast...making more money than me...probably fucking his girlfriend for all I knew....going to church...had his own friends...I told Steve that we were separate human beings, and I doubted I was powerless to ruin my brother’s life just by changing my address.
None of this quieted my dad’s passive-agressive inquiries. He was an extremely jealous man, but I didn’t understand that then. A jealous man, a jealous God. Jealous of my worship and affection. That’s what they taught in church.
When I was a kid, I wanted to help A— grow up so I could be free. I wanted him to hit puberty and learn how to drive. I wanted him to escape so I could relax. It was selfish, I know. And it probably made me mean sometimes. I think I picked on him for being “young for his age.” I regret that terribly. I hope he doesn’t think I pressured him. He was everything to me.
Jumping around here. The thing I like about the 12-Step model is this: everyone is forced to take responsibility for their own “triggers,” and grow up. If you’re “triggered,” you aren’t pittied and coddled and rocked back to sleep. You go do a 10th Step, make a call to a trusted friend, get your inner-dialogue straight, meditate, and heal yourself. You push through, use courage, developed perseverance. You GROW.
In 12-Step, we don’t say, “Oh, I’m having a shitty day because Johnny shared too openly in a group therapy session. And I’m so fuckin’ sensitive that someone needs to tell him he should talk less because I’ve decided he’s responsible for making sure I feel good all the time. And because I’m broken, I rule the Universe like a spoiled child. In fact, Jonny should read minds. He should know when the phrases he uses makes me face myself and deal with my shit. The shit I want to avoid. The shit I’m paying you thousansands of dollars to treat. In fact, I’m such a entitled wuss that I’ve decided Johnny should be punished for not anticipating my needs...even though I have no idea what they are until after I’m already upset.”
That’s insane. Literally insane.
My anger is spewing everywhere; I apologize. I should use less profanity but I can’t. Using the pen...the blog...is how I expand my lungs. And I have to breathe the fire of rage I’ve never allowed myself to expel.
12-Step is amazing. It throws you in the deep end of the pool. You’ll figure out how to swim if you can read. If you just learn how to speak. If you ask someone for help. If you’re determined to save yourself. All this shallow water stuff is just enabling. Too many inner tubes and noodles. It’s distracting, a waste of time. I’m the only one in this place who hasn’t been to treatment before...over 20 treatments before. The industry is ridiculous. #imsuchabitch
God Bless Anthony DeMello.
What ever happened to detachment? Depersonalization? Boundaries around your self? Self-soothing? Reality checks? Having the balls to remove yourself from people who are too much to take? I’m not offended. Unlike you, I’m never offended!
LEAVE. Just leave the fuckin’ room in the middle of my share. I’ll keep talking. I’ll talk all I want. Because I haven’t been able to talk MY WHOLE DAMN LIFE AND I WANNA SHOUT! And that’s why I dipped into our retirement fund to be here - so I can talk openly and feel to heal.
Let’s be God-Damn equals, already. Let me be the adult that I am. Let them be the adults that they are. I have tusks now. I sit at the Big Boy table. And if you try to edge me out, I’ll stomp you into the ground.
So, you fancy professional in pretty clothes, don’t tell me: “Rachel, go to therapy groups, but don’t share. Rachel, visit with your housemates, but be quiet. Rachel, have your own experience and be free, but don’t get anyone else dirty. Go be yourself, but don’t isolate.” What a double-bind. Fuck that shit.
No, I’m NOT going to groups if I have to be silent. And no, I will NOT visit with my housemates (family members) if I have to censor my energy. And YES, I will be free to have my own experience. And if I have to be free alone...all by myself...at the table outside...on the pavement with the birds...then I will.
I do it everyday in Scottsdale, at the Coffee Plantation. I sit there, me and the Universe. No stings. No voices. We love eachother, the Universe and me. We read and inspire ourselves to evolve. I’m a needless, wantless, lonely lion. I don’t need my housemates (anyone) to heal. I just need my SLAA peeps. I just need my escape. I just need to breathe.
I don’t need my housemates to heal; I will heal myself, mother fuckers.
I don’t need my family anymore; they’re needy and abusive and soul crushing.
I don’t need anything from anyone because I was trapped in a cage and denied all my rights.
I’m 14, 16, 19, 22. I’ve died and come back to life so many times over. I’m exhausted and angry. My skin is riddled with infectiously puss-filled wounds that ooze with emotional disturbance.
I’m leaving the house. Never coming back.
I will fly the way I want. My wingspan is wider than Camelback Mountain.
My tail feathers are agents of balance and direction.
My colors astound spectators from miles away - they’re blindingly beautiful bolds to behold.
I am a Bird, Motherfuckers. A mother fuckin’ Lioness Bird.
I am both.
I have claws that kill and a beak that bites.
I have cheeks that are colored with the fragrance of roses. Pink and delightful and subtle and mute.
I’m a delicious Bird that no one can catch - watch me swoop and dodge and disappear.
Watch me cum on strong before I become invisible.
“Where’d she go?”
“Oh, that’s just Rachel.”
I pop in and pop bubbles and charm with my smile. I’m so empathetic...sort of.
Watch me say what I mean and mean what I say without regret.
Watch me be fearlessly direct, and infinitely gentle.
Watch my lioness tongue soothe the open backs of my injured young,
While I lie in wait for revenge on the predators that underestimate me.
Fools.
My revenge isn’t YOU, you conceited man-child! Get over yourself.
My revenge isn’t putting you away for your criminal indulgences. Nor outting you to your professional friends.
My revenge involves nothing you’ll ever be able to reach...or touch.
My revenge is becoming Myself. Speaking my Truth. Roaring with fire. Feeling my body. Vibrating with passion.
My revenge is using you for the greatest orgasm I’ll ever have - the kind where we don’t even touch...and I win...’cause I’m free.
My revenge is creative and envied and out-of-the-box...and you’ll never, ever get to see it.
My revenge is a secret ‘cause they tear you apart. Secrets are sharp and serrated, aren’t they?
Not knowing is fearing and fearing is death. You’re addicted to control, so I’ll give you none.
I want you afraid...so you’ll stop bothering me...that’s all.
My revenge is allowing you to make up stories about me. Crazy stories.
So go away; go gain the trust of your family by deceiving them all over again.
Go manipulate your followers by accusing me of being manipulative.
I’ll let you, and I like it. I like the fact that you’re petrified.
Charm and disarm.
Disarm and detach.
Detach and stand up straight. Shoulders back. Tits upright.
They just hate it when I do that.
(Awkward silence as I realize I had to try to kill to stay alive...kill or be killed...every night of my adolescence. Which is why I love rough-and-tumble-play...and always beg Bob to wrestle even though he won’t...because his knees hurt...I’m bitter about his avoidance...his ability to live without touch...my inability to live without it. Maybe I’m a sex addict after all....a sex-addict who’s only slep with four people. And I see why predators fear me. I intrigue them. Even though I thought I was so sweet. Whoa. Breathe. Take a break. Maybe tone it down a little, Rach. People could actually read this shit someday.)
My five-year-old is loud.
Oh, and also, I’m not wearing a bra (and Mackie and Darylle said it’s fine). So there! Take THAT!
And, I just ate 800 calories of Honey Nut Cheerios with whole milk! (Gasp! The calories! My word! For Heaven’s sake! Forbidden!)
Ha! I drew outta the lines, you Big Meanie! How do you like me NOW?
I broke the rules and you can’t do anything about it...
Because it’s my body...and I get to pick what goes in my mouth. I get to pick what comes out. Anorexia. Get it out, never swallow. Bulimia. Get it out, I don’t know? Will someone get hurt if I refuse?
Once I can speak, it all goes away. AA saves my life. LITERALLY.
AA gave me a voice. Gave me my body back. Gave me the strength to leave my Evangelical “family.”
It’s my body, and I get to pick how to use or abuse it.
It’s my body, and I don’t give a fuck about yours.
#thisiscalledanger. #firsttimefeelingangerhard. #emotionalregulationisabitch. #Imareallymeanpersoninside. #alwayslearningnewthings. #vanitytosanitytoinsanityagain.