Toke and Toast
Just spent about half an hour re-arranging my pictures. Suddenly they seemed so prop like. Artificial. We will sort out a box of toys for the living room tomorrow and take the clothes drier in here. Stared at the 'Chocolat' print wondering if it has a safe place. I left it where it is. The mood has been breaking. I applied to college, cleaned the kitchen. Bought her a card, forgot the address but phoned to tell her.. I bought myself wine (Morrision's extra special), fair trade chocolates and received a very humble gift from the green goddess.
Watched news. Syria. BBC News, reporter saying they were finding groups of women without any men, the women said they took them all way. An older man said he saw them round up males and spilt their throats. Pictures of bloody corpses, a man stumbling across mounds of dirt with a child shape wrapped in white cloth.
I've been reading Peter Levine, just a little. I knew when I was younger that prolonged disocation often led to complex PTSD. I've trying to note to myself how my body feels, feelings of tingling, pain, breathing and heart rate. I have seen it as a route I will have to tack for a long time. Scary though. We're not talking about a car accident here and that is bad enough. It feels like all I ever am is a constant series of reactions to trauma. Stuck in cycles of abusive relationships.
I was in a state for a while. I tried not to see the little green and white lump like an old alcoholic looked at a nip to see them through the night. Then tried to roll a joint the size of one I used to smoke when I was growing. It all hit hard. How the slaughter is unbearable. Send them in I thought. I'd rather a 16 or so once or twice a year from 'rogue elements' than something as systematic as this. Bomb them, it can't make things any worse. Just do something.
Now there's a warmth, tingling and extreme vulnerability around my throat, the strong taste of metal and a thudding ache in my chest and nervous energy everywhere else. So hard to acknowledge responses when they come so hard and so fast. I tell myself it just the way things are sometimes. I should know. Sometimes, quickly, sharp, clean and quick. Other times slow, hacking, dark and loud.
I'd been thinking about how I was going to impress my shrink. He said something about the need for progress. I know my eyebrows became slightly raised. Progress. I used to be almost dead on a regular basis and now I'm not. I used to take crystal meth because it made anything possible/bearable. Now I buy a bottle of wine once or twice a week and feel a little guilty. Is that progress enough?
But we only just met. I have been not believed in the past about being so matter of fact about the few things I do remember. What the fuck do they expect, its not like its the first time I've spoken about any if it.
But I will make the reference phone call soon. I will go to see the man. I might just get a hair cut and when shes thinning around my neck I will put my chin in the air, breathe and except the pictures without flinching or buckling.
Watched news. Syria. BBC News, reporter saying they were finding groups of women without any men, the women said they took them all way. An older man said he saw them round up males and spilt their throats. Pictures of bloody corpses, a man stumbling across mounds of dirt with a child shape wrapped in white cloth.
I've been reading Peter Levine, just a little. I knew when I was younger that prolonged disocation often led to complex PTSD. I've trying to note to myself how my body feels, feelings of tingling, pain, breathing and heart rate. I have seen it as a route I will have to tack for a long time. Scary though. We're not talking about a car accident here and that is bad enough. It feels like all I ever am is a constant series of reactions to trauma. Stuck in cycles of abusive relationships.
I was in a state for a while. I tried not to see the little green and white lump like an old alcoholic looked at a nip to see them through the night. Then tried to roll a joint the size of one I used to smoke when I was growing. It all hit hard. How the slaughter is unbearable. Send them in I thought. I'd rather a 16 or so once or twice a year from 'rogue elements' than something as systematic as this. Bomb them, it can't make things any worse. Just do something.
Now there's a warmth, tingling and extreme vulnerability around my throat, the strong taste of metal and a thudding ache in my chest and nervous energy everywhere else. So hard to acknowledge responses when they come so hard and so fast. I tell myself it just the way things are sometimes. I should know. Sometimes, quickly, sharp, clean and quick. Other times slow, hacking, dark and loud.
I'd been thinking about how I was going to impress my shrink. He said something about the need for progress. I know my eyebrows became slightly raised. Progress. I used to be almost dead on a regular basis and now I'm not. I used to take crystal meth because it made anything possible/bearable. Now I buy a bottle of wine once or twice a week and feel a little guilty. Is that progress enough?
But we only just met. I have been not believed in the past about being so matter of fact about the few things I do remember. What the fuck do they expect, its not like its the first time I've spoken about any if it.
But I will make the reference phone call soon. I will go to see the man. I might just get a hair cut and when shes thinning around my neck I will put my chin in the air, breathe and except the pictures without flinching or buckling.
