*IT* has been named

So the therapist has named her back-up who will cover for her during her vacation. And *Grace wipes sweat from her brow* I can rest easy because I KNOW *IT*! I am bathed in relief! Because now I KNOW there ain’t no way I’m gonna get through the two weeks…well, that was before I came up with my own “back-up”….I shall elaborate.

THE BACK UP (fat ass Marsha ‘wannabe’ posing as a “therapist) When the therapist pulled the execution boundary card and insisted that I attend DBT classes, she “strongly” suggested I take these classes with this social worker/pseudo-therapist she works with at the hospital so the two of them could meet on a regular basis and discuss how they would like to torture me next. I did NOT take the classes w/therapist’s *friend* MWB (Marsha Wanna Be) and let tell you why.

But first, some background music… Hit it Barb! (memories, by Barbara Streisand)

In January 2008, I met with this DBTC for an “evaluation” (yes, an interview process to get into the “this is your last chance to shut up and behave class…what would happen if you don’t get in and it’s “your last hope”?) This chick is truly a Marsha pod person, only without the awesome brooch and barrette…but they obviously eat at the same buffet together since they’re both “mindfully” obese. Which, hey, whatever…my opinion on that is “Eat to please yourself, dress to please others.” In other words, eat all you can eat, in fact, pull up a chair and stick your face under the ice cream dispenser…but please don’t wear a mini-skirt when I have to look at your fat ass….cuz that’s just nasty! In fact, I’m still traumatized by seeing this woman’s pudgy thighs and crotch because she likes to wear mini-skirts and she doesn’t know how to keep her legs closed (hey- no judging on that one, cuz… ) And apparently she did not take Laura Linney’s advice – because Laura says, “You can’t be fat and mean. You can either be fat and jolly or a skinny bitch -it’s up to you.” Cuz this woman is a fat bitch!

So this MWB pod-*IT* drilled me for 20 minutes on my biological father … who is he, were my parents together when I was born, did he have “mental illness”…and on, and on, and on…and this was AFTER I completed her “questionnaire” and stated that I did not KNOW my bio-father, I had NEVER met him. In fact, I’m not really certain that my bio father is who the host body says he is…ain’t no *father’s* name on my birth certificate and she was a whore. WTF! For real! Then she told me that by hiding my SI from the hus that I was a liar and obviously didn’t care about my marriage. Awesome! Anything else? Yes, there was more….but I’ve blocked it out with the vision of her cellulite smothering me. Oh, except for the fact that she told me it was once job-ordered that she attend anger management classes. Which, thank you for your honesty…I’m assuming that was “pre-dbt”. She also told me that her DBT classes consisted of only “professionals”…and when I left her office, there was a woman with minimal teeth in the lobby, so I’m not sure what type of “professionals” MWB was referring too.

Shit…I hope MWB doesn’t *google* DBT-MINDFUCK* and find my blog post…she might be “offended”. Oh well…if she does, and she is “offended” then I guess she knows how I felt when she DRILLED ME FOR 20 MINUTES ABOUT MY BIOLOGICAL FATHER WHO I’VE NEVER MET AND CLEARLY DID NOT WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME – AS HE DID COME AROUND (EVENTUALLY) TO MEET MY OLDER BROTHER). OH – but I am INTIMATELY accquainted with my stepfather who fucked me repeatedly for YEARS – should you like to talk about THAT! The fuck! Of course she’d have no idea I was speaking of her anyway…unless she should happen to read the whole post, remembers the *short skirt/flashing the blonde chick* incident and her initials are CLF. (Quid Pro Quo ~ CLF)

So this is the news that the therapist drops on me yesterday…and hello, I’d rather die than call that fat bitch! Which is exactly what I told the therapist And the therapist told me I was “judging” MWB and I told her the MWB judged me…so whatever! The therapist went on to tell me that maybe MWB was “testing” me. Testing me? Um…The F, therapist! What did that mean? “Testing me?” Really? Did she want to F**K me too – like he did?

I told the therapist “no-can-do” on the back-up. In fact, I was talking to my admin about this and she said thinks the therapist does shit like this on purpose to piss me off. Maybe so…but as I’ve already stated, there is no way in hell I’m calling that marshawannabecunny, nor will I be taking her business card “to make therapist feel better”. NFW! And I said as much to the therapist. So she would like to know my back-up plan. And yes, I do have one. I have purchased a trak-phone at Wal-Mart which I will mail to the host body and I can call her in distress…cuz that would be about as invalidating and unhelpful as calling the back-up MWB. Although, maybe MWB would be nice to me if I mailed her a chocolate fountain.

F**K – ya’ll…I seriously wanted this to be a humorous post…like one of those, “who is the last person you would want to talk to” kind of things…like, I can’t make this shit up…kinda posts. But it isn’t funny. Really, there’s nothing funny about it. Therapist thinks so little of my “well-being” that she assigns that bitch to be the back-up KNOWING goddamn well how I feel about contacting her? Oh-well…”it is what it is,..” and I’m not angry at the therapist. I’m angry at that stupid kid who will not be able to get through the 2 weeks w/o the therapist’s support. That’s who I’m angry with…but I’ll “deal with her”. In fact, that just makes things easier for me. Frankly, I don’t need a back up – and therapist knows goddamn well that I would never call some woman who suckles so often at the nun’s teet.

And when I die, please write cause of death as: SUFFOCATION FROM DBT CELLULITE AND LACK OF REAL CARING BY THE MHP COMMUNITY. Oh, well, fuck her…she wasn’t worth it anyway…she was born trash and she shall die trash. And therapist won’t know anyway because she’ll probably get eaten by a bear on vacation.

Yes, therapist, clearly, I am just that “SHALLOW”…but why would I think that my *leaving* would have a lasting affect on someone who obviously cares so little about me she assigns me a back-up therapist that I would rather chew my arm off of caught in a bear trap than call? Yeah, she’s real concerned….whatever. That’s like leaving your kid at a daycare run by Susan Smith! *Well sorry it was the best I could do…but pls know that in the unforseen event of your *accidental drowning* …I did care.* But I’m *shallow*.

I think I’m done here. No one gives a shit about my bullshit life (obviously) and I’ll be gone soon anyway…and I doubt anyone will even notice.


LINK TO READ:   *IT* has been named

Bad girls are not angels

LINK to new website:  Saving Grace

The grandparents adopted the host body when she was 8 years old. The host body’s bio father left her alcoholic bio mother with 6 kids and no income and the children were take away from her. Oh, the irony. That just hit me right this minute as I type this…that she was taken away from her mother when she was 8 years old and the host body and my bio father left my older brother and I alone in an apartment in Immokalee, Florida when we were 21 months and 6 months old, respectively, for 3 days while they were picking oranges and boozing it up. My brother and I were found by a catholic church member who happened to see my brother J hanging out of the 3rd floor apartment window. But we were not taken away from them. We were returned to them to continue to be tortured…which, I guess that means we weren’t even as important as her when we were babies. Hum…anyway, that’s not the point of this post so I’ll table that for now and possibly come back to it later.

When I was about 9 years old, 2 of the host body’s bio sisters *found* her. It was an exciting and confusing time around our joint during that time! I imagine it would be quite exciting to discover your siblings lost long ago…but I suppose it would be disappointing to discover your sibling was a raging alcoholic married to an abusive sadistic man (as was the case with the host body). The host body’s oldest sister, J, was a SAHM with 6 children, and her other sister was a nurse with 2 sons. J had 2 daughters and 4 sons and one of her daughters was my age. J’s youngest son had the same name as my younger brother, first and middle name, and I always thought that was so weird- that host body and J did not know each other and yet they chose the same name for their sons. Something else that seemed strange to me was that the host body’s sisters called her by a different name. Her name, as I’ve always known it, is Mary, and yet they called her Stella.

The host body’s sisters lived in a town about 2 hours away and we used to visit them often. The summer after J & W found the host body, the host body and ESF took my brothers and I to J’s house and left us there. I think for about a week – but I’m not exactly sure – it was a lot of “nights” – that I remember. J and her hus were nice people, they didn’t have a lot of money, but they made do with what they had. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul-de-sac- the house had only one bathroom and 3 small bedrooms. But J and her hus loved and provided for their children. I liked it there, but when we had been there for a few days I started to get concerned that the host body was going to leave us there forever. That she would never come back for us. You might perhaps be wondering why in the world I wanted them to come back for us since J and her hus didn’t hurt their children . The truth is – I’m not sure. Maybe I wanted to see my gramma again, I don’t know. But I remember feeling *homesick* and afraid. I thought, “She did it. She finally got rid of us!” Now we’ll never see them again. You would think I would have been happy, elated to be away from host body and ESF, but I wasn’t. Sometimes memories like this remind me that I wanted to be abused. I went back there, didn’t I?   They did come back for us.

It was about a year later that my mother’s sisters decided that “Stella” “Mary” – whatever…was not someone they wanted to keep in contact with…she was a raging alcoholic and they knew that ESF beat her on a regular basis (believe me when I say it was obvious). So they disappeared and we never saw them again. Not even her bio family wanted to be around her. After they disappeared, life went on as though they had never existed. Host body never talked about them again. Neither did ESF. My brothers and I were surely not going to mention them.

Life went on…the beatings and abuse continued…I was still his whore and she still hated me. Life went on then as it does now….slow and painful, with me begging for it to end. Praying to God to make it stop or kill me. A prayer I am still familiar with. A prayer I still pray every single night.

“Dear Mr. Jesus, if you can hear me please do not let him hurt me anymore, Mr. Jesus. Please come and take me away with you. I want to be an angel with soft fluffy white wings. Don’t you need an angel like me, Mr. Jesus? I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be a good angel.” Apparently, he didn’t. And it was because bad girls can’t be angels. Bad little girls have to stay with bad people and be punished for being bad.

She is still bad. Bad bad girl. That is why therapist doesn’t want to talk to her and why she is leaving and she doesn’t care that we are hurting. All because she is a bad bad girl. Bad girls don’t get to be angels. Bad girls get punished.

“No,” I said, “I’m not ok.”

Yesterday in session when I told the therapist that I was nervous about her vacation because I depend on her for support right now, she’s a big life-line for me – and she said, “Well, maybe we shouldn’t talk until after my vacation.” And it really hurt my feelings because of course the neon sign starts flashing “ABANDONMENT”. And I was all, “WTH, that’s the answer? To not talk from now to then so I can get used to your being gone before you’re gone??” But maybe she’s right. Maybe this is one of those, “Grace, I’m doing this for your own good, things.” And maybe it’s best for her too, if we don’t talk, if she doesn’t know how I “feel”. Yes, the more that I think about it…the more I think it’s best. She doesn’t need to know how I *feel*. I can come up with my own *plan*. In fact, I already have one I can just it *dust off*. It doesn’t need to involve her at all. She should just enjoy her vacation and not be frustrated by the whiny DFW baby. I can take care of that kid! No problem!

I am in sort of a capricarious volatile state of mind right now. I know that I have no right to be upset with the therapist about leaving for vacation for 2 weeks. But I am… I’m overwhelmed to the point I am bursting at the seams. Boiling over…. And her answer is to not talk and hand me a business card of someone I’ve never even met, nor do I know her protocol, and when something happens, I can call her? I imagine that conversation might go something like this, “I can’t breathe…I just f’d the hus and it’s Friday and I can’t stop watching this scary movie and I can’t get him off of me. I can’t breathe…” in a 5 year old voice. Wonder what would happen then? Does Subbie T have “TraumaBrain” experience with dissoicative mentalists, dear therapist? Because you of all people should know how “difficult” I can be…

I am so lost right now. I have tried to believe that it won’t always be this way but I feel so depleted and hopeless. I cannot take care of myself right now. I want to be alone but when I’m alone, with no one to distract me, or talk to me, the piercing truth of my reality cuts into my heart and burns through my soul. I am so drained I cannot even think straight. My heart aches….this is the roughest patch I’ve hit and I can’t believe I’m still alive.

The pain I feel is unexplainable. I’m so tired and frustrated and I feel like it’s all just too complex to deal with. Too multifarious for me to understand…and the therapist would say, “It’s not, it’s so common and understandable, and you can do this…just keep on keeping on.” But she’s wrong. Clearly she doesn’t understand…I can assure you…I am dying more every day.

Oh, wait, I’m a “survivor”, right? I forgot. I have tried to collaborate my shattered thinking to form some rational simplicity from my emotional intricacy. I’ve tried to understand. But my mouth forms words my brain is unable to process. What I do understand is that the human mind and body shields a child from the horrible truth so the child can survive. She can survive but not realize how she has been shaped, altered, wounded, until she grows up to become a woman and it gets so bad that she feels like she’s nothing, nobody, worthless. I understand that because I had no idea how much he really shaped who I am today. I feel nameless, fragmented, unlovable because I cannot love myself. Both he and the host body cut me into pieces…so many pieces I don’t know which pieces belong to “me” and which belong to “them”. I cannot sort through them.

See, now I am afraid that the only way I see this working for me is to shut down completely. I really do not know how else to do it, the “feelings” are just too big and overwhelming for me right now and she’s going away for 2 weeks. I barely make it week to week, day to day, really. I do not have a good support system in place right now, and I can do a lot of damage in 2 weeks time. Right now, I have been seeing the therapist twice a week because I am having trouble managing from week to week. So much is happening inside of me and I don’t want to rely on her, I don’t want to “count on” her for support, but I have been lately. And she was very supportive and helpful recently…

I’m struck by how little my life has become. I am afraid and I can’t even tell anyone. Afraid and overhwelmed by what goes on inside my head and my body. So big, so real, so much stronger than what is outside of me. So sharp…I feel it, cutting me, stabbing me, with it’s serrated razor-sharp pieces. It’s painful…

LINK to Grace's new Website:  "No," I said, "I'm not ok."