Slow Processor

No, I am not an AMD Athlon.

People who have argued with me or debated with me will know that I am exceptionally good with rapid-fire arguing. When particularly impassioned I can rail off a line of questioning that would make Jack McCoy proud. Given the chance, and if I am pissed, I will blast my opponent with questions, over and over, until they either start arguing back with equal to increased ferocity or knuckle under and give me what I want.

Unless it is N. I am forbidden from doing this with Him, and if I inadvertently try He shuts me down and sends me away.

This habit does not make me a fun friend if you have done something that wounded me. It does not make me a good person for mediation and reconciling. I know that, and I have made peace with that.

With that in mind, I will share another facet of living with me that will make you scratch your head. When I was named, they should have named me Mary, because I am quite contrary.

When I have a momentous event happen in my life, I react immediately with what I know and feel. If my first emotion and my first thoughts are anger and hurt, I will react accordingly and lash out. If it is surprise and humor, I will laugh and feel at ease. As time has gone on, I will revisit the event and process my feelings and thoughts further, often discovering another layer below the initial flare. Sometimes my impressions will go through three or four evolutions before I have fully examined and absorbed an event’s effects.

Because of my initial flare of feelings and reaction, people think I have accepted the event and I am done with it. That I may express differing emotions a few days afterwards surprises them, but they usually roll with it, let me talk it out and feel my way through it, they are understanding of my need for a sounding board and occasional guide.

What they don’t understand is that if the event was very intense, traumatic, or painful, I won’t go back to process it right away. I will put it away for weeks (or even months) until I have sufficient resiliency to withstand revisiting it. Sometimes it may take me a few years to fully understand what happened, what I did, what I felt, and how to incorporate it into my self. Each time I reassess these points, I put it away again for awhile. Processing painful or scary events takes a lot out of a person.

Unfortunately, each time I go to revisit and further process an event, there are less and less people willing to listen to me, because they feel I am lingering, dragging on the drama, playing the victim card. I start to feel vulnerable and attacked, so those events never fully get processed. Instead they take up little corners of my mind, like craft projects never finished, little pieces scattered here and there in the middle of use. And once in a while, I’ll step on a sharp piece and become absolutely pissed that it was left out to begin with, not finished and neatly put away like I would prefer.

I’m at that point right now. I have this craft that I am wanting to revise and process further, but I can’t from lack of supplies and tools. So I’m stuck with this pile of craft parts, and each time I walk by it in my brain, I just scowl and stick my tongue out.

I don’t know if anyone else is a slow processor like me.This might just be a part that was permanently transformed by my abuse. Or maybe I’m still rather screwed up cognitively, but I just don’t know it because it doesn’t come up as a conversation.

So if anyone out there is reading this and saying “Yep, I do that too” or “Well, I used to do that but then I …” I would really appreciate hearing from you. Advice and suggestions are welcomed, because I don’t want to be a burden on my family and friends much longer.

In Other News: Everything is going well here. I’ve been fucked a few times, and those injections of sanity have cleared my funk up. I’m still tired and I still occasionally dream about flying to Boston by myself to stay at a hotel on the beach, but hey, it beats wanting to burn down the barn for entertainment.

 

My Long Road

I wrote a long post about the things I have lived through in my life, and was trying to explain how this played a role in who I am. It got tedious and I didn’t want to write a novel, so here’s the short short version.

I had:

  • seen my mother held at gunpoint by the man I called daddy (my stepfather)
  • been thrown across the room trying to save my mother from that man as he straddled her and slapped her like a rag doll
  • been molested by that man from ages 5-9
  • been petted and degraded by his friends for favors
  • been held at gunpoint by policemen as our house was raided for a drug bust
  • lived in poverty for all of that time. We didn’t have phone services, occasionally ate Hamburger Helper without the hamburger, lived on government commodities and goodwill baskets.

  • Moved across two states with nothing more than what could fit in a minivan
  • struggled with leaving a small quiet country town for a urban school district with racial tensions
  • been molested by the brother I moved in with
  • been molested by the uncle I moved in with
  • listened to my grandmother call my mother no-good trash and say that I was raised by wolves
  • lived in a one-bedroom apartment with 6 people and a baby
  • shared a bedroom with my abuser until I was 13
  • sliced my abuser with a steak knife in a desperate attempt to avoid another beating
  • suffered through three years of attending a school in which most of my classmates had seen naked pictures of my mother screwing various items and men (not my father)

  • tried committing suicide twice before the age of 16
  • started drinking at the age of 13
  • started using drugs at the age of 13
  • started cutting at the age of 13
  • laid stoically through an attempted rape
  • suffered through my parents’ various mental illnesses and irrational fits of rage, which included throwing a stereo, scissors, booster seat, and various books at me at random times
  • listened to my mother swear she was going to kill me because I had the nerve to call her counselor and alert them to her being crazy again
  • deal with my father kicking in my door (and removing the lock for the rest of the time I lived with them) because I had locked it before I left for school to stop my parents from stealing my babysitting money
  • Sit through a long screaming lecture from my mother about how the cops said all the abuse I endured was my fault and that I didn’t love her anymore because I reported the abuse and neglect
  • Ran away from home after my mother and father got into a screaming match and my youngest brother was knocked over in a fit of rage
  • Was denied treatment for my mental illnesses (depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation and PTSD) because my mom felt the therapists were blaming her for my condition.
  • Sit through another lecture from my mother in which she informed me that *when* (not if) I got knocked up, I certainly wasn’t going to get any help or support from them, including having a place to live. That’s rich coming from a woman who had her fist child out of wedlock at the age of 16 and her second at 19. She also refused to give me access to birth control.
  • never learned to: drive, balance a checkbook, drink responsibly, apply for a job, apply for college, or have a meaningful relationship with a partner

Given all of that (and more that I just don’t feel like thinking about or writing about) it is no wonder I ended up in a halfway house for a week while my meds and treatment were ironed out. I spent four years in therapy, 5 years on medication. By the time I was able to get the help I needed, I had internalized the constant stream of negativity and abuse from my family into an auditory hallucination. I thought I could hear people’s thoughts about me, and it was *never* good. It was actually the negative feedback loop I had grown up with, being projected onto others to save my self.

And for once, I can say I am truly past that. I am whole and sane, with many interesting scars and stories to tell about them. I am a complex slave to own, with a trying and tricksy history that makes even the most normal of situations into a challenge at times.

It is that history that makes me confident in saying I know what abuse is, and how N and I live our lives is nothing like abuse. It is that history that makes me confident in saying I can fully offer my consent as a sane adult, because I know what it is like to be an impaired adult. It is that history that makes me able to fully appreciate what I have now: security, love, appreciation, and happiness.

I have walked through the fire, scraped my knees on the jagged edges of insanity, and am whole and pure in the face of the future. I am battle-hardened, sharpened to a wicked point by pain and endurance.

I am, who I am, and I love myself for who I have become.

I Need the Very Thing That Terrifies Me

To be broken, and put back together…

 

It has been a long time since N and I have “played”. I mean, serious intent on pain, broken sobbing, both of us consumed by our intensity kind of scene.

It is exactly what I want, and exactly what I am terrified of. I have no pain tolerance anymore, and the kind of pain I want is mean and hard and icky. I long for the subsumed ego after a good beating, but the journey to get there, although integral to the result, is something I would want to skip. Except maybe not. Falling victim to His desires is something I alternately loathe and ache for.

Even worse, I am hungry for something that I won’t get for a while still. I seek an unreachable experience, and the very fact that it is so far from my grasp makes the yearning stronger.

I do not ask for much, especially in the way of S/m. I know it is a lot of work on His part and as tired as we both are, I don’t want to tire Him more. So I just wait, and dream, and fear.

I think when I finally reach my dream, I will die the tiny little deaths of agony and ecstasy.

I can, and can’t, wait.

 

This Is My Slavery

The sun is high and warm, with only wispy mare’s tails clouds marring the sky. I drip with sweat, itchy in my long sleeve shirt and baggy jeans. I can feel the leather of my boots pressing clammy against my damp shins. The wind comes and goes, much like the dog, capriciously and without notice. The cat is lolling in the shade of the barn, resting indolently on the concrete pad of the side door.

I follow the three-furrow plow placidly, swinging my gaze from in front of the plow (looking for obstacles) to the back of the plow (checking the roll over and the soil condition) and then up to Him on the seat of the tractor (hand signals, commands, needs?) The sonorous mutter of the content Farmall M tractor, the steady hiss of sod being cut by the lead disc, the clucking of the lame wheel as it rides in the newly-formed furrow…all these things meld into a Mobius-strip soundtrack as I walk along, watching the plow, checking the rows, preventing any problems.

I am His eyes.

I slide the spade from shoulder to shoulder, frowning as the wooden handle roughs up the tender skin of my palms. There’s a low throb in my hands, a sharper acrid beat where the blisters are beginning to form. As I plod along, the pain melds into a low hum in my hands, matching the chugging commentary of the tractor. I ignore the irritation and settle back into my meditation.

The plow bucks and digs into the ground, refusing to move any farther forward. I swear and threaten the plow and the tractor as He urges the tractor forward, lunging the tractor, alternately blocking the wheels, backing up and lunging forward again. I lean forward and tear long tapestries of sod out from behind the lead discs, barely feeling the brief heat of the nettles hidden in the long grass. Finally He breaks free and I walk again.

Each time we pass the silo, I hold my spade up slightly, head cocked in an inquisitive gesture. At the nod, I come forward and scrape the plowshares clean, chucking the ragged streamers of sod into the last furrow. I give everything the once over and nod for Him to continue. Words are useless; there is no way we can out loud the tractor. Everything is based on gestures, down to the need for water.

Once in a while I trail away, headed for the barn or house. I grab a long, cold, dripping drink of water, then fill the bottle for Him and head back out, wordlessly handing Him the welcomed bottle. He hops off and we discuss the work so far, poking the soil, judging the conditions, assessing what might need adding.

It is under these conditions that I fully feel like an extension of Him. I’m His tool. I’m just like the plow, the tractor. And I’m happy. I’m content. I can just fall into the rhythm of serving Him and let everything else fall away.

 

My Dog Ate My…

Let’s play “Mad Limericks”. Did you ever play that as a kid? Fill in the blank in this line:

My dog ate my ___________ while I was __________ with ____________.

Write your entries in the comments section. 🙂

Here’s mine:

My dog ate my glasses while I was being beaten with a rusty pitchfork.

No, I am not making that up. Only my life would hand me such stupid shit and then sit back and laugh at me.

We can buff those right out. 🙂

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