Posts tagged ‘PTSD’

I have no skeletons in my closet: they're all hanging from the yardarm

The day started with a post from Nicky to my Daverana Page. He revealed that one of my employees was secretly accessing files on the main company computer and then sending them to him.  So I checked the logs (I’m the only one who can access those) and the most recent person to have a look at my Nicky files was Bob. He had also tried to pry into sections and documents that I had passworded.  I may never know whys of it all, but I am appalled by what I do know.

I had a big fight with Bob and then he threw a link in my face and called me a ‘bitch.”

The link was to a new page that Write Agenda has up on me. I tried several times to make my screenshots larger enough to be easily read.  So, in case you cannot read<a href=”"Photobucket"” target=”_blank”> this one, I’ll post what it says beneath my name in tiny type:

Protected: T.W.A.N.G.: Janrae Frank Dossier Project

In Accountability, Alcohol Abuse, Alternative Lifestyles, Cocaine, Drug Abuse, Emotional Instability, Gay Lifestyles, Hollywood, Illegal Drugs, Incitement, Interviews, Intimidation, Investigations, investigative journalist, Janrae Frank, Journalism, Journalist, lawsuits, Legal Issues, Lesbian, Lesions, Polio, Poliomyelitis, Propaganda, Rehabiltation, Sex Change, Spinal Column, The Washington Post, Therapy Sessions on November 9, 2011 at 10:10 pm

They got all of this off my blogs and put some spin on it to make it look like I”m mentally ill. It seems that having been trapped in an abusive marriage for 15 years and developing PTSD as a result of that abuse makes me all kinds of crazy. What does this say about their opinion of other abused women who found the strength to escape dangerously abusive marriages like I did? What does this say about what they believe about women who have survived male violence (as I have) and come out of it battered, but sane?

If people who have had PTSD and dared to talk about it are disparaged as “emotionally unstable”, how does this reflect our returning soldiers? Are they saying the ALL of our returning soldiers are to be treated badly and subjected to their derision?

I may have abused alcohol at times before I got meds for depression, but I was never an alcoholic. I was laughed out of my attempts to join AA. You see, all of the true alcoholics could recognize me as a normie with just a single question. “If you had some money and no groceries to feed your child, what would you spend it on? Your child or booze?”

Sovay never went hungry once I escaped from her father.

I have talked openly about my experiences with meth and cocaine and how I went cold turkey off it in 1988, because I wanted to show others that it was possible to stay clean. I have been clean since August of 1988. But they want me punished for ever having done it.  They want to turn my victories — and by extension all those like myself who overcame their addictions — into defeats.  Guess what, Write Agenda? It ain’t going to happen.

My ex is a transsexual and out of the closet. But by putting that one word there, it suggested that my c-section scars don’t really exist.  If any of the voyeurs reading this want pictures, feel free to ask.

No, I’m not a Lesbian. I’m bi-sexual. There IS a difference. I’m the B in GLBTQ, not the L.  So apparently they are homophobic also. Like the good people who are going around burning queer folks alive and dumping their remains on street corners.

And let’s take a look at how they mention my polio as if that made me mentally ill and of questionable worth.  Are they trying to insinuate that by having had polio at age eight I ought to be condemned?

The only one this reflects badly on is them. Not me.

Sea of Desolation

It’s been a long, very long time since I felt driven to write one of these.  I’m not certain what touched it off.  Perhaps it wafted in on the night breeze.  Maybe it was triggered by the brief dust up with Theaker.  Maybe it was weeks of dealing with the madness that is Pacione.  Maybe it is the time of year.  We’re fast approaching the anniversary of the death of my oldest daughter.  Maybe it is the material I have been writing lately that has summoned  the flashbacks and nightmares.

Whatever the trigger, I feel like I am being swallowed alive by a sea of desolation — a sea without a name.  I have been heading for this one for weeks.  I’m certain of that.  In the past six weeks, I wrote 200k words.  That kind of productivity only happens when I am on the run from my memories.  If I write fast enough, maybe they’ll go away and leave me alone.  Doesn’t always work.  What does work is exhaustion.  I think I am fast approaching that.  Eventually I will fall apart, collapse, and be able to sleep.

As a child and a young adult, I used to give away the things I loved most.  Just give them away in the hopes that god or gods or whatever amorphous diety exists would finally forgive me for whatever mysterious sins of mine caused my mother to hate me.  They were sacrifices in the name of a nameless atonement.  I analyzed and analyzed and struggled to try and discover what it was about me that caused her to withhold her love and affection.  There had to be a magic key somewhere that would unlock her cold, disapproving  heart.

So I made those sacrifices in times of severe emotional pain, praying for relief.  But the gods never heard me.  They certainly never answered.

She left my first step father when I was 13.  She seemed to find it perfectly acceptable for the men she dated to flirt with me.  For God’s sake, I was 13.  It was not my fault that I had developed young.  It was not my fault.  It frightened me.  I would reply to those passes with verbal  savagery and, in a few cases, with a strong right to the face.

And guess who she thought was in the wrong?  Me.  It was all my fault.

Around that time, Jeannie C. Riley released two hit singles.  The Girl Most Likely and Harper Valley PTA.  I identified with both of them.  But the mother figure for the latter song in my life was not my mother — it was my grandmother.

Mama (grandmother) and Mickey (mother) became locked in combat over me starting around the time that I was 14.  That was after Mickey married my second step-father.  He hit on me also.  Growing up, Mama had always told me that I was the child she had lost.  She raised three children, but the fourth one — a change of life child — was miscarried late in the pregnancy.  The maternal bond between Mama and me was firmly established.

But the pain visited upon me by Mickey and my step-father had become a roaring noise in my head and heart.  The peaceful security I had known with Mama got shattered as the conflicts between Mickey and me gradually wore her down.  One night, Mama took me aside and disavowed everything she had ever said about my being the daughter of her heart with just a few words, “I’m sorry, Jan, but Mickey is my daughter.”

After that I was alone.

I was 16.

Maybe I am or was batshit crazy

Dungstain does not understand trauma or its effects.

My entire life was stained by violence from the time I took a baseball bat to a drunken uncle who was battering his wife on the front lawn when I was home alone at age 11 to the time that a marine sergeant (who happened to be my brother) cracked three of my ribs by banging me against a piano and tried to choke me to death. I was 23, and a few months shy of 24, and I beat him in the face with a heavy flashlight to get his hands off my throat.

By the time that I was forty, the unending abuse, both physical and mental/emotional, had become so bad that I had developed a hair trigger response of bringing my fists up to defend myself whether the assault was physical or verbal.

I was told by others that, when I demolished the gangster wannabe in the halls of this building, my facial expression was demonic. The guy had threatened to kill my little dog, Levy. After that he started crossing the street to avoid me. That was only seven years ago.

Dealing with Dagstine, more than Nicky these days, sometimes sets off those same responses.

So yes, maybe I am batshit crazy. But at least the crazy has triggers and I worked with a cognitive therapist for several years trying to get control of it.

I think I still have a right to resent Dagstine’s remarks.

I doubt that he has ever had anything more traumatic than a stubbed toe happen to him.

I put the traumas of my life into my writing and there are times when I write obsessively for days and hours at a time trying to runaway from the memories and flashbacks.

I have never made any secret of that. Sometimes exhaustion is the only thing that lets me sleep because as soon as I put my head on the pillow the dreams, memories, and flashbacks start up again.

Some of them are violent and others are just a pit of sorrow. But I run from both of them.

I wanted to get some writing done today, but it looks like all I will do is blog and run in that manner..

I promised Sovay that I would help her with her novel, but I put her off until 5, which is an hour and a half from now.

My last neurologist attributes my seizure disorder to having been pounded against the wall repeatedly by my step father who stands six foot five inches tall and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. He banged me against that wall until I grayed out. I was 42 at the time. There is a little bit of something inside my head that is probably benign, but the timing for the development of the first symptoms is perfect for when he beat me. He also admitted years later to being the person who cut the breaklines on my car, gave me a naughty boy smile, and laughed in my face.

If I am batshit crazy, then life made me a present of it.

More Batshit crazy and mythical attorneys

So leave Ms. Datlow alone, and stop concocting these absurd stories. Oh, and be sure to take your tricyclics or your MAOIs (whatever the doctor prescribed you), before you go to bed tonight.

Love Lawrence

This little gem is from his comment here

So here we have the newest thing from Dagstine. I’m supposedly batshit crazy because I suffer from PTSD. Larry, I am not on anti-depressants or other meds for being crazy. I chose to use my writing (a recognized therapy) and try to bull my way through it. When various parts of your life are impacted by attempted murder (from members of my family mostly) and a fifteen year marriage that was so abusive it was reminiscent of a concentration camp existence, PTSD is a natural outcome of it.

You are implying that our combat vets who return from our various wars are batshit crazy. You had better re-think this comment and all previous and subsequent comments.

And here we have the mythical attorney threat

My attorney called me in a flash, scalded me, and told me to remove it.

Don’t worry, you’ll be meeting him soon. Paperwork isn’t drawn up overnight, ya know.

That must have been a seriously fast notice. My google alerts are set to come in as it happens. So let’s see…. within minutes of posting your attorney contacted you. Damn, he’s faster than a speeding bullet. Does he also jump tall buildings in a single bound and fly through the air?

28 hours without sleep

I have gone 28 hours without sleep. Every time I put my head on the pillow I either get angry all over again, or I start having flashbacks. At Wednesday’s team meeting for Daverana Enterprises, we got off on a bitch session about Jean. The guys (Phil, Gustavo, and Niwi) went missing. In the course of it, we got off on the subject of my former step-son and that put me over the edge into flashbacks and nightmares.

I kept trying to leave the meeting as my stomach clenched up and another round of adrenaline hit me. I was shaking and sick to my stomach by the time I left. No one there meant to trigger those. They just happen. I’m as wired as I am on those night when I am trying to write myself into exhaustion so that I can lay down without having another round of memory noise.

The connections connect. The associations associate. I wish that my insurance covered more sessions with a cognitive therapist.

As I watch what is going down with Jean, I keep getting flooded with more memories. It is hard work to escape them. I’m hyper and nervous as a cat. But they won’t let me go. I have to just ride them out and keep going until I can let exhaustion release me.

It's one of those bad nights.

PTSD is an odd creature.  One of the side effects is flashbacks and insomnia.  They go together.  Once the flashbacks get triggered, I can’t relax enough to sleep.  Putting my head on the pillow is just asking for another one.  The only way to ride them out is to stay so compulsively busy that eventually my body can override my mind and memories.

I fought it.  I always do.  For a little while, I thought I had managed to derail this round, but about six o’clock, i discovered that they had me by the heels.  I know what set them off, for all the good it did me.

When Dickstain (and i’m certain this will make him very happy) threw that meth picture at me in response to my comment “transgressive is no excuse for bad writing,” I felt like I had been hit in the solar plexus.

As of last Friday, i’m between books.  It takes me about a week to gear up for the next one.  i read through two different roughs, and tried to gear up fast enough, faster than usual, in order to put the flashback energy (if you can call it that) into fiction.  However, I was not fast enough.  So it’s going into blogging instead.

It’s what I call ‘binge writing,’ and usually the binge is fiction.

So i guess this could be called ‘binge bloggin.” 🙂