1,000 Lives.

 

1,000 Lives

I've always thought that by bouncing around in life, doing things for a season (not a literal season,  but for a period of time) mean that I lacked focus or discipline. But my eyes are open now. I welcome new interests, new experiences, new paths, new people. I look back at the things I've done.

I have lived a thousand lives.

My performances on stage brought joy and entertainment to thousands over the years. I have built things with my bare hands. I have won races. I have dropped out and excelled at school. I have been a makeup artist. An influencer. A wife. A mother. A vagrant. A street performer. An artist. A writer. A healer. A witch. An advocate for disabled children. A mentor. A safe space. A kind word. A helping hand. A good friend. A victim. A survivor. A warrior. 

I have been my own biggest cheerleader, I have also been unimaginably cruel to myself. A sister. A diary. A secret keeper. A degenerate. A rebel. Independent. Co-dependent. A leader.

I give love to people unapologetically. Fat. Thin. Starving. Satiated. Sick. I'm a weirdo. I'm unpredictable. I'm loyal. I am brave. I have been a tutor. A student. A skater. A stoner. An addict. 

I am a gravitational pull. An unseen force. A gardener. A house keeper. A nurse. I've skated with amazing teammates. I've been an anchor. A rock. A threat. A force of nature. I am a creator. An innovator. A reader. A critic. A cynic. An optimist. A realist. 

I am wild and feral. I have amazing manners. I'm unpredictable. A nerd. A cool kid. I ebb and flow like water. I am freedom. I am strength. I am forgiveness. I'm a lover. I'm also a fighter. I am a main character (though not on purpose). I am warmth and safety. I am shelter from a storm. I am the storm. 

I have repeatedly stared death in the face and welcomed him like an old friend. I have suffered. I have rejoiced. I have mourned. I have grieved. I have loved. I am a queen. I am queer. I am poly. I am pan.

I am quiet like a summer breeze through a meadow. I am as loud as a thunderstorm. I rise to the occasion. I give too much of myself. I am kindness in a cruel world. I'm a punch to the gut if you're asking for it. I have been used and discarded. I have been worshipped like royalty.

I am the darkest parts of humanity. I am everything good and right about humanity. I am an example, good and bad. I am invisible. I am the center of attention. I am the life of the party! I am agoraphobic. I am in introvert. I am an extrovert. 

I am unusual. I am goth and punk and alt and unicorn and fairy. I am a chef. I am charismatic. I am open and raw. I am a solid wall, unyielding. I am a prude and a slut and everything in between. I am the night. I am pure sunshine and starlight. I am dream girl. I am your biggest nightmare. I am an angel. I am a demon spawn.

I am hot. I am cold. I am a heart. A soul. A spirit. I am a moral compass. I am a guide through tumultuous times. I am fire and water and earth and air. I am a sponge for knowledge. I am the class clown. I am the guardian. I am a protector. I am steadfast and unstable.

I am a sports fan. I am a dancer. I am a singer. I am the friend you haven't met yet. I am a problem solver. I am empathetic almost to a fault. I am mischief and mayhem and tom-foolery. I am deadly serious. I am full glam. I am a messy bun and sweats.

I am capable of anything. I am pure magic. I have no self-confidence. I am beautiful inside and out, even when I can't see it. I am spicy. I am trouble. I am peace. I am tranquility. I am autumn leaves. I am winter blizzards. I am summer sunshine. I am spring showers. I am a fucking delight. I am a pain in the ass. 

I know who I am now. I don't know who I'll be next. I am all of this and much more.

I have lived a thousand lives. I hope to live a thousand more.

Empath

Empath:

Empath sounds so much nicer than Trauma.

Interpreting movement as emotions and deep connection.

I can feel what you feel. It's my superpower.

I am a mirror reflecting everything you try to hide.

I read your laugh lines like the story of your life.

Your tone can sound like the bells of Notre Dame or a fire drill. I can hear what you don't say.

It's like a magic trick when I can tell you that your too cool for school behavior is you masking your abandonment issues. 

I can feel that.

It feels like an empty safe that the bandits of joy left behind.

I am an empath.

The way you move through the room is like a silent film. I don't need words to understand that your mood is glowing red, not like Valentine's day, but the angry red of a mood ring.

Because I am an empath I can move and speak like diffusing a bomb. 

I also know to run before it explodes.

Empath is the pretty name we give ourself to hide our trauma.

Empath is the skills we've mastered to stay safe.

Empath is the instinct we've learned to keep us alive.

We are not sensitive borne of love.

We are watchful borne of fear. 

Everyone loves an empath.

You can throw out your baggage like an emotional dumpster.

We'll carry it for you.

If we watched ourselves as closely as we observe others would we see we're not empaths at all?

We are victims of trauma.

But Empath sounds so much nicer than Trauma.

I want to want to...

It's quiet now, in my head. One thought at a time. It makes me feel sluggish, in a way. I'm not used to so much quiet. Not having 13 thoughts at the exact same time, and two songs stuck in my head to top it all off. When it first got quiet my ears rang for several weeks. The silence was deafening. It's not as noticeable anymore, but every once in awhile I am aware of it. Like breathing. It's automatic until someone tells you, "Hey, you're breathing right now."

I kind of miss the noise sometimes. The quiet is kind of lonely. I am alone in my own mind, with just my singular thought, whatever that may be. I don't have all of my voices to keep me company. To stimulate my brain. To entertain me when I don't want to do anything or go anywhere. Sometimes I miss the way down. I want to crawl into the familiar down place, hide from the world, life. Just me and my thoughts, the only things in existence, under my blankets.

I feel like I've lost some of my creative edge. Without all of the thoughts happening I don't need an outlet for them. I don't need to put pen to paper, or paint to paper, or words on a computer. I worry I've killed the creative parts of my brain. Or I'm locked out. I've lost access. Can't remember the password. 

I still worry too much. Not about how everything I think or say or do will inevitable usher in the apocalypse. I worry I'm making the wrong choices. I worry about building a tolerance to the meds that keep my head quiet. I worry that once again I'm pouring all of my focus and attention towards a singular point, and like so many times before it's the wrong direction. It gnaws at me. Maybe I'm worried I'll crash and burn like every other time. I worry I am not capable of following through with anything. Ever.

And I'm mad. Not like the constant rage-monster I used to be. Where the anger was all I had, all that kept me alive, the spite that kept me moving forward. Not the kind of anger that was my primary emotion. Rage Mad, Rage Happy, Rage Sad, Rage Scared. I've calmed down. I have noticed that there are very real triggers that bring out my rage. Even if I'm able to keep it internal. And sometimes I still can't contain it. I wonder why I even care about these insignificant things that make me mad. Why I zero in and hyper-focus on them. The truth is, I don't know why. Maybe because I'm just so damn good at being mad all the time. It's easy for me. If I feel slighted, I cut people with my words. Not as often, but it's still there. It feels justified. I don't think it is. Not always, anyway.

I cry a lot. At awful things. At things that make me mad. At things that make me scared. At things that break my heart. At things that inspire me. At things that are beautiful. At things that are sacred to me. At things that make me laugh. At things that are too much for me. Always at too much. But I allow myself to cry now. If I'm frustrated I ask to stop what I'm doing for a few minutes. And I cry. Ugly. Hard. Desperate crying. And when it's out, I can pick up and continue where I left off.

I'm surprised I can still be charming and charismatic. I can still draw people in and make them feel good about themselves. I can be giving, and kind, and teach people to be kinder to themselves and others. I feel like a phony. Not when I'm doing it. But after. How can I be so good at teaching people to love themselves and one another, but I cannot put that into practice for myself? I wonder if I'm even capable of self love or self respect. But still. In public. I am kind, and when I am kind, other people start being kind.

I'm learning. About myself, about the world, about people. So much information coming in, I don't have time to let anything out. I have learned to trust my instincts about people. When I watch them, when I figure out who they truly are, I'm not wrong. Even if other people tell me I am. I'm not. My one useful superpower is still intact. I don't know what to do with that information because it's always in public, so I must remain kind. What. The. Hell?

I'm tired of chasing people, following people, begging for any leftover scraps of attention. Relationships aren't 50/50. They're 100/100. You have to give them all or nothing, at least, that's how it works with me. I can't be the person giving the relationship 100% of my effort, while I'm only kept around when it is convenient for you. If you want to be in my life, you have to actually try, I'm not carrying your load anymore. I'm done. It's exhausting and toxic and it's bullshit. I am not a duckling that has imprinted on you. I will not follow you around and sing your praises. I will not make myself small for you. I am not a doormat for you. No more begging for relationships that don't provide anything of value to my life. I don't have time for it, I'm too tired.

Despite all of this, I'm somehow trying to find my best self in this new normal. I can't dwell on the past. I did what I did, I said what I said. That's my motto for the year. I need to try harder to really consider my words. It's so easy to just, go off. I need to get a grip on that. It's beneath me. I also need to stop keeping people around for nostalgia's sake, especially if they're toxic or problematic. I should just let them go. Quietly. Without all of the fireworks and pageantry. No "Fuck You" parades, or fanfare. It feels good in the moment, but again. It's beneath me. Just let them go. Like blowing on a dandelion. Release them and let the wind currents carry them away. 

I don't know who or what I am now. I don't know whether it's important for me to figure that out right now, or not. I don't know how to end this blog. I need to learn self restraint and self respect. I need to stop... All of the bad things. I want to want to be a better person. That was not a typo. I want to be capable of controlling my emotions and behaviors and exhibiting them in a healthy, productive way. I want to want that. I want to be proud of who I am, not in a conceited way, in a love myself, take care of myself, kind of way. 

I want to have the energy for all of that. Spiritually, Mentally, and Physically.

But I'm tired.


P.S. I've gone back to school. For Psychology of all things. I do enjoy irony.

Brain Health through the years. A look back.

"I will say 'I promise that my legs just need another season, and then I will be who you fell in love with again.' And then probably just 'I'm sorry that there was once a tremendous blue sky and then a decade of hard incessant rain.'"
~Hanif Abdurraquib

10-24-17

I have always been sick. For as long as my memory allows me to reach. So there was never a specific moment when it all came crumbling down. I was never 'normal.' Some of my earliest childhood memories are hallucinations. My closest friends were cars and refrigerators. My heart would break if one stopped working and had to be replaced. Like the fridge at my grandparents' house. It poured cold water and crushed the ice exactly how I liked it crushed. I sobbed and hugged it right before it was hauled away. I probably couldn't forget that fridge if I wanted to.

My hallucinations were mostly benign. Seeing my future self walking across the street, with friends, after school. 

Some were bizarre. My mom leaving me in my hot carseat to run inside. The car left the driveway. I can remember the exact route. I can remember what the little girl on the big trampoline, in front of her house, was wearing. I can remember telling the car to go back. before we got caught. And we did. Right before my mother came back outside. In hindsight that may have been heatstroke.

Some were frightening. Like the big blue van that parked across the street, and the three armed, big scary men in the Bee suits that got out. I hid under the dining room table. They banged on the front door for a long time. I knew they were there to kill us. I was never sure why my mom didn't answer the door.

Sometimes they were downright terrifying. Laying in my bed at night. Watching the dark hand appear from behind my open door. The dark figure with the long claws and glowy eyes. Trying to scream. Or run. Or both, and being completely paralyzed.

By age five I had my first existential crisis. Playing with dolls I suddenly wondered if I was a doll in a house, being manipulated and controlled. I made furniture for the dolls, made sure they looked comfy, and let them be.

I was never. Let me repeat Never unguarded. Everything and everyone was a threat and I was afraid. Every man wanted to kidnap and or molest me. Never be left alone with a man! Thanks mom. Maybe that's why the first person to molest me was a teen girl. Whom, I might add, my mother caught in the act. But because she was friends with the girls' mom, and was being paid to watch her, she did nothing. The abuse continued.

My body was never mine. My hair was never cut the way I wanted. My hobbies more like a full time job than hobbies. My school work, homework, I should say, was drilled into me like a soldier. Name, Rank, Number. And by God my number better be 100% plus the extra credit, or I had failed.

The only escapes from the madness were swimming (I could only hear my own thoughts. Not her criticism.) and reading. Where I would be totally transported to an entirely new place. Heroes and Heroines were my friends. But none of them saved me from reality. 

In fifth grade dad up and left. Poof! Gone! So I checked out too. Completely. From straight A's to D- in a matter of days. D's turned to F's. F's turned into missing entire semesters of school.

I tried running away at thirteen. Failed attempt. Went home. Tried again at fourteen. Stayed mostly homeless until Seventeen. From thirteen to seventeen I drank almost every day. And I took any drug handed to me. By my teens I was almost constantly in a manic state. Known as "Crackie" (you know her as Jacklyn Hyde) I was a party girl who took no shit from anyone. Ever. There was a lot of D.I.D. at that time. And a rape, or a few. I digress, see? Nothing about me was ever "stable" or "healthy" or "typical." If my feelings got hurt I stuffed it down. Cut myself. Got drunk and got over it. Now, looking back, I never stood a chance. It's sad.

This new stable feeling is strange, foreign. I, as an adult, now have to figure out who I am without the constant swinging Bi-Polar Disorder and D.I.D. 

I fear... That's it. I fear. I never really did before. Now the whole world is new and it's a scary place!

I'm stable for the first time ever. But my brain will still be sick, forever. I take my brain medicine. I do the brain repairing work. But if I stop either of those things I'll go right back where I was before. Sicker, Lower, until I die early.

My body is mine, but I do not recognize it.
My hobbies are gone.
My past behind me.
My parents gone. (Alive, but gone to me)
My thoughts and actions, from here on out are my own.

I'm still too afraid to step out into the world.

So what do I do now?
Who am I?
What am I?

Trauma

"Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town, depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party...

...Sure, I make plans! I make plans, but I don't want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. It's just not that much fun, having fun, when you don't want to have fun, mom..."

~Sabrina Benaim
Explaining Depression to my mother From her book Depression & other magic tricks

10-26-17

What is trauma like?

Trauma is like a tumor on your soul.

You must get it treated to get it out.

Writing, therapy, art, talking it out.

You have to find a way to get it out of your body.

See, like a tumor, left untreated, it will metastasize.

It will spread to your family, your friends, loved ones, children.

It will infect everyone you come into contact with.

You are patient zero. You spread the infection. But you can stop it.

Get it out of you. Find what helps you heal.

Release it.

Untitled

10-16-17

Quick note: This is probably the most difficult piece I've ever decided to share.

Dear "Dad" or whatever, 

I've avoided writing this for a long time. Every time I think of starting I have flashes in my head of all the many many times you've treated me like shit or fucked me over. Suffice it to say, lately I think about you a lot. Too much. More than you deserve.

I know what you are. You are the yellow starburst in the two pack. Not hated. But definitely not liked. Just there. To ruin the pack of tasty candy. But nobody is willing to risk everything by standing up against yellow starburst. The fight just isn't worth the gains. (Admittedly there are people who actually like yellow starburst, strange as it may be.)

In the list of pros and cons for confronting you about all of your shit behaviors. Past, present, and future. You yourself are the whole cons list. And that's enough to not bother trying.

You are an angry fucking person. Why? What the fuck happened to you? I was raised by your parents. I was angry too. Not at them, not at everyone. But at you. You didn't have garbage parents, so what's the deal? Why are you like this?

You are a coward and a deserter. When shit got bad you ran. Four days. (maybe five) Five days of the whole family frantically trying to find you. You ran to save yourself and you left the three of us with Her. You never stood up for me. You always sided with Her. Like a mindless hangman, you carried out her punishments based on Her version of events. I never got a fair trial, you bastard executioner.

You're a self-serving piece of shit. You've paraded so many women through our lives. Sending us away to Her whenever we were getting in the way. So basically every chance you got. You never listened to our pleas for help. For you to save us from Her. You screamed at us on the phone for calling you every fucking day! And let's not pretend that I wasn't the biggest inconvenience of your life. Real hard to date young hotties when you're the father of a teen. Makes you look old. Better to pretend I don't exist.

The favorites game. I was the experiment that failed. The cause of a loveless, miserable, marriage. Then came MJ, the boy to carry the name. Golden child. And LB, the child born to save a broken marriage. My brother and sister. Shown off to girlfriends to show how responsible you are. Taken to fun places to do fun things, so the ladies could probe they were wifey material. But I could see the confusion and disdain in their eyes as we would occasionally cross paths, thus forcing the ever awkward introductions. It was easy to pretend I didn't exist until I was standing right in front of you. Making you look OLD.

Drinking. You knew this was coming. I don't know that I've ever seen you sober. Like really sober. Not weekend sober. But Honest to God Never Again, Sober. Same goes for Her. And then you and your new wife drink her to death. Yet I heeded the call. I sprang into action. I stood by your side. I walked through a fire for you. Not because you deserved it. Not to humble-brag about my grace. But because you were my father. And if I didn't you'd die. And any hope for a different future would be lost. Forever. Yet still, you drink.

The subtle art of screaming at people so they can't talk about things you don't want to hear. This taught me to win fights by being as mean as possible and making sure I was louder than my opponent. That's how you win. Meaner and louder so they retreat. And you continue behaving this was until nobody can approach you about anything. Any problem, big or small, any complaint or judgement, or questioning. You've created this hostile environment. A conversational mine field. Like a rabid tiger, you dare people to step too close to your boundaries. Silently daring them to come at you. Maybe even yelling at them just for being in the same room. "YOU'RE IN MY FUCKING WAY!!" Everyone is in your way if they are in the same house as you. It's like you told me, It's your world and we're all just living it.

One upper. Despite your heinous, lazy, disruptive, disturbing, loud, abusive behavior. I was always somehow worse than you. And you let me know it. Yeah, I get it, I was a fuck up and a runaway. Guess what? It was to get away from YOU. So no matter what bullshit you throw at me about my teen years, just know it was a direct result of your bullshit. I ran away from YOU.

Do you know I can still hear you and Her fighting. Slamming into the other side of my bedroom door. Grunting, and cussing, and hitting, and squeezing. Threatening to kill each other. Did you two purposely bring your fights to my literal bedroom door? Do you know how traumatizing it was? At 8 years old. Having to make the decision to get out of bed. Put my shoes on. Dear God, don't let them know I'm awake. Place my doll in my bed so only her hair was showing. Quietly, quietly, open my sliding glass door. Walk to the fence. I hate spiders. I know it's covered in spiders. I have to climb anyway. Eight feet over the wooden fence. My tiny arms lifting my body up with the adrenaline. Over. Drop quietly. Neighbors can't hear or they'll tell. Duck under their window, so they can't see. Run down the walkway. Past their driveway. And another house. Please God don't let the kidnappers get me. Up the next driveway to the sliding glass door. Dark. Locked. NO! Back up the driveway around the corner to the front door. Ring the bell! Bang on the glass! Yell through the mail slot "They're KILLING each other!!" Lights come on. Door opens. I rush inside into Papa's confused arms. I scream again "They're killing each other! STOP THEM!" He and Nany rush me to their bedroom. put me on the bed. Stay here. Grab their robes and fly out of the room, out of the house, like two elderly super-heroes. I'm alone. I fear one or both of you is dead, or worse that you'll hurt my Nany or Papa who are trying to break up yet another fight. I know I'm in trouble. I know what waits for me at home. I can replay these fights over and over in my head for the rest of my life. Routine has a funny way of doing that to you.

I'm tired now. I tried to have something that looked like a relationship. But like always you put your new woman first. Or second. Drinking first. Always. Wait no. You first. Drinking second. Women third. I'm somewhere near the bottom below sports, all of them, food, cooking, pets. Way way down the list. I don't care. Honestly at some point you just became an irritant to me. Like allergies. I'm allergic to you. So I avoid you. And if you get brought up. I get irritated and move the conversation, or thoughts, away.

So enjoy what's left of your life without much of your family. After all, You've earned it.

~J

And one last thing. All of those shitty jokes and comments you make to people, when I'm around. About how because of me you had to take parenting and anger management classes. Let's talk about WHY motherfucker. You punched me in my face so hard I fell back onto my bed. I popped back up, full of hate, and refusing to stay down, so you did it again. And again. In front of my best friend. It was a thursday. I took off after you left. The next day, at school, I called Nany to tell her what happened and why I left, so she wouldn't worry. I didn't notice my teacher there. With tears in his eyes he told me he had to report it. He walked me to the office. Next thing I know I"m being handcuffed (so I can't escape) And walked to a police car. They took me to the children's shelter. It was so full Fourty of us had to sleep on the floor. And because it was end of day Friday, I had to stay in that shithole until a social worker could release me to Nany on monday (pending that it was a safe home environment)
FUCK YOU VERY MUCH!

Sometimes I hate that I STILL love you.

Maybe

10-25-17

I tell you this meme is problematic. And you reply with little more than what might as well be, "maybe."

Maybe this is pseudoscience and it could get someone killed.

Maybe I'm tired of living as nothing more than an advocate for my illnesses. My meds. My kids. My gender. My sexuality. My humanity.

You see maybe I don't have the constitution to raise up the revolution or your evolution.

Maybe it's time for me to surround myself with a different kind of people.

Maybe they won't be obtuse or stuck in the quicksand, knee deep, settled in for keeping life like the "old days." Sticking to the old ways.

Maybe I can open their eyes to a better way of thinking and in return they'll open my mind in new ways.

Maybe I finally think I deserve better.

Maybe.