[Private journal entry written on July 20, 2009]

I have been feeling much better this summer. I’m sure a large part of it is because my work schedule drops to half-time during the summer, so I have had a lot more “free” time. Well, it’s not really free time because summer is when I work on my big projects – projects that are easier to do when I have big blocks of uninterrupted time in which to do them.

Photo by Martin Chen

The looser schedule has meant I have been able to better cater to my mood swings. I can stop and climb under the covers when I’m triggered. I can get up and write when I have an “ah hah” moment in the middle of the night because I know I can sleep in, in the morning. The more relaxed schedule is an awesome luxury.

I wonder if part of my feeling more stable comes from not having to deal with the drama of being in therapy – as in therapy with a therapist – I am still very much in “therapy”, just not with a therapist. It seems my relationships with therapists are a source of unnecessary drama for me. So, no therapist equals no extraneous drama.

I believe another part of my feeling more positive comes from the fact I am progressing in my emotional healing. I can feel a shift in how I relate to my history and to the world in general. I am healing. I am feeling more confident. I am experiencing a certain consistent level of hope.

True to the trend of feeling better, I went for a hike yesterday morning. It was absolutely glorious.

After arriving home, I changed into sweatpants and t-shirt and sat down at my computer. As I was sitting there, I noticed the ball of my right foot was still a bit tender from the hike – I tend to get “hot feet”, but the burning usually subsides by the time I finish the 45-minute drive back to the house.

So, I checked it out – and my right foot had a quarter-size blister that had formed in between the layer of calluses and the very new skin – and the blister had ruptured. No wonder it was tender! I had been walking on baby skin!

I sat on my bed, cleaned up the wound and put a band-aid on it. Then, I didn’t get up from the bed. Instead, I sank backwards into the pillows and flipped on the TV.

I was starting to feel the tail-tale signs of the arrival of an acute emotional nose-dive.

In the subsequent six hours, I ate two pints of B&J ice cream and drank two classic Cokes. Then, for supper, I ate a big stack of blueberry pancakes – I only had enough syrup for the first pancake, so I sweetened the remaining ones with straight granulated sugar soaked in the last dribbles of the syrup.

In between taking hits of sugar, I spent a good thirty minutes picking at my face – and I masturbated twice to hardcore Internet porn. Now I’m left asking the question . . .

Where the hell did all that come from?

How could I go from feeling so incredibly joyous and free-spirited on my hike in the morning to a raging lunatic in the afternoon? Nothing happened – no troubling news arrived, no sickening shows played on the TV, no one broke my heart, no flashbacks hit me – nothing happened. What triggered me? Surely not discovering a blister on my foot.

The good news is that I did do one productive activity – I washed and dried three loads of laundry in between all the insane activity. But, I didn’t have enough gumption to actually put away the laundry. I was too busy contaminating my body, mind and soul.

I went to bed still craving more sugar, more numbness – with my heart doing summersaults in my chest from carb overload. My head was buzzing with a band of tightness. I made a weak attempt at swearing off sugar . . .

I was having trouble falling asleep because anxiety (and sugar) was keeping every muscle taunt – every noise, every movement in the house kept snapping me awake. So, remembering a post from Faith Allen’s blog about weighted blankets being an effective soothing tool, I laid all of my pillows, including the heavy floor pillows, on top of me, the entire length of my body and on top of my arms.

Much to my surprise, the weight of pillows did the trick. Almost immediately, I felt the anxiety dispel significantly. My body started relaxing. Even the ever-present need to “be held by a some nameless, faceless, kind and gentle man” faded. I felt calm and safe, and sleep finally came. What a precious gift . . . .

[Private journal entry written around noon on July 19, 2009]

I went for a hike this morning. I haven’t been hiking in nearly a year. Why? Well, I just didn’t feel up to it. I love to hike, but the mental roadblocks were bigger than my desire to go hiking.

Photo by Martin Chen

It was absolutely awesome. I went to Lory State Park, which is the park located in the foothills, immediately uphill from Horsetooth Reservoir. I invited a new friend . . . a gal from Portugal. She is a few years younger than me and is here as an intern at a local veterinary clinic for a couple of months in preparation for her doctorate’s schooling in veterinarian medicine.

She stayed with us for a week. However, our guest bedroom is not really set up for longer stays – it is really only good for short stays (like a weekend). So, subsequently, we moved her in with our next-door neighbor who is a school teacher and who routinely has exchange students stay with her. She has a very nice guest suite in her basement.

As it worked out, my new friend decided to not join me. (I found out later that she declined because didn’t have hiking shoes, which are really important when hiking.) I had originally planned to do a very easy hike, just enough to allow my legs and feet to remember how to climb inclines. However, since my friend didn’t join me, and I after discovered how good my muscles were feeling, I pushed myself a bit.

I hiked for ten minutes shy of two hours. The starting altitude was about 5,500 feet (1,676 meters) and my altitude gain was a comfortable 450 feet (137 meters), which is the equivalent of climbing 45 flights of stairs. And, I traveled 3.9 linear miles (6.3 km) – not bad for being out of the habit of hiking!

For those of you into Google Earth, I have a .kmz file of the hike but WordPress won’t allow me to upload it to the blog. If you are interested in it, you can request it from me via email at magnalady1@aol.com. It is pretty cool if you run a tour of it – I recommend putting the camera range slide all the way to the left and the camera tilt slide all the way to the right. I also recommend a very slow speed to avoid vertigo, LOL.

Everything is still very green and the creeks are still running strong. This is very unusual – normally, by mid-June, the creeks dry up and the vegetation starts turning brown. (Colorado is technically a desert, although sometimes it does not appear to be.) Today, it was absolutely beautiful and lush – the wildflowers are still busy blooming, strewing vibrant colors all over the place.

I hiked in the morning so it would be cool. A few storm clouds started rolling in towards the end of my hike, but the sun was strong for most of it. It was shaping up to be a warm day – it was already 90 degrees (32 degrees Celsius) by the time I finished at 11:20am.

I followed my favorite short trail – the Wells Gulch trail. It dips and climbs through several valleys. It was on this trail two years ago that my 15-year-old nephew and I came across a den of green prairie rattlesnakes – which are poisonous. We both came within about two inches (5 cm) of stepping on a rattler coiled up on the trail – I thought she was a rock, one on which I intended to step.

Just before I set my foot directly on her, I saw the pattern on her back and lengthened my stride to land my foot right next to her. She must have been very close to death because all she did was flick her tongue at us a couple of times. (In contrast to my reaction – I whooped quite loudly – so loudly that my nephew declared I scared him worse than the snake ever did, LOL!)

Then, about ten feet (3 meters) farther down the trail a very-much-alive rattler was stretched out across the trail. He angrily buzzed and slithered around, making it quite clear that we were not welcome. So, we walked way out around him, through very thick brush, praying that we didn’t run into the rest of the clan. (We didn’t.)

Three years ago, while hiking by myself on this same trail, I came across a family of black bears. As I came around a corner, we all startled each other. They were snacking on some berries about 50 feet (15 meters) below the trail. I whirled around in place to determine if there were any other bears nearby (it is not good to find yourself in between a mama and her babies) – while the three of them quickly lumbered down the hill and across the gulch, and started up the other side.

The two roly-poly adolescents continued to the crest while the 250-pound (113 kg) mama bear stopped. She stood upright and put her front paws on the topside of a large rock. Then, she looked back over her shoulder at me and growled, as if to say, “I am not particularly in the mood to eat you, but if you insist . . . “

I assured her that I had no intention of causing her anymore bother – which seemed to satisfy her. She got back down on all fours and ambled on her way. I stood there for several minutes, silently watching them in awe.

Ahhhhh, that truly is my sanctuary of choice. It is where I feel closest to God (and where I pray with my eyes wide open so I can keep an eye on the natives, LOL). I want to go back – soon.

[Private journal entry written the morning of July 19, 2009]

I had a dream last night . . .

My dreams often share a recurrent theme . . . I will go into the garage or the basement or some back room of my house and discover a whole bunch of small animals in cages and terrariums (gerbils, cats, small dogs, fish, frogs, etc.) That is when I remember that I was supposed to be taking care of them.

Native by Martin Chen

At this point in my dream, either I will be horrified because I had forgotten about them – meaning they have been without food or water or a cleaned cage for days – meaning I will subsequently discover gruesome casualties of my negligence as I scramble to save those that can be saved.

Or, in the other version of my dream, I will feel “on top of things”. I will think to myself, “Oh, I better feed them before I forget.” In this latter version, the animals are in great health and very content.

I have been having these dreams for at least 20 years. I have learned that they reflect how I am caring for myself emotionally. If I’m currently taking care of myself, the dreams are pleasant. If I’m not, the dreams are terrifying and sickening.

Most of the time, my dreams follow the first variation. However, the dream last night followed the second variation. I woke up from the dream with a strong sense of well-being. That is a very good thing, indeed – something worth celebrating.

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I have been participating in a group for aspiring bloggers. We all share what we have learned so that we all can become better bloggers.

At the inaugural meeting in March, we were supposed to introduce ourselves to everyone and describe the focus of our blogs. When it came to my turn, I mumbled something about my blog being “a documentary on my experiences in therapy”. I quietly declined to share the name or url address of my blog – I wasn’t sure I could face the group again if I knew they had read my blog . . .

Then, in May, I asked for ideas on how to handle the confusion that comes from having a time lag between the date I write the journal entries and the date I publish them to the blog. I spoke in very generic terms about the subject matter. However, at the end of the meeting, I did briefly mention the url address of my blog and invited any post-meeting feedback they might have – and I warned them the subject matter was “raw” and that they would be “entering my blog at their own risk”.

In June, when I introduced myself to some new members, I was feeling really brave and described the subject matter of my blog as “how I am dealing with the aftermath of childhood sexual abuse”. Whew! I said it, just like that, with only one minor stutter. During that same meeting, the group pulled my blog up on the computer screen and did some critiquing.

Can you believe it? I sat there with the five other attendees (and they all five happened to be men) and reviewed my blog – my words were right there on the screen – with me, and the five men, all together in one room. And, I didn’t die or melt or anything awful like that.

The guys were all very respectful and their feedback was positive and helpful. It was a big moment for me — a healing moment. I doubt they have any idea how much they helped me, unless they happen to read it here. (If so, thanks so much, guys . . .)

So, I’m slowly starting to feel less like I have something to hide. In my own mind, this “affliction” is less shameful. I’m starting to care less about keeping the truth from people – about only and always projecting the “nothing’s wrong here” face to the world. It’s starting to feel possible for me to share what’s going on with me with people in my three-dimensional world.

I remember the first time I pulled together enough courage to expose the tiniest bit of my shame to someone – I had to do it through a written note to my therapist – I couldn’t even speak it out loud. That was only a tad more than 16 months ago. I’ve come a long way, baby!

In fact, I’m feeling so brave that, today, I changed my gravatar to a current close-up photo of myself – someone could recognize me – but that would be okay, I have decided. If it happens, I’ll deal with it.

[Private journal entry written on July 18, 2009]

All this week, I have been experiencing the recovery of more memories around what happened with “X” . . . or, again, what I think are valid memories, assuming something did happen with him.

Photo by Martin Chen

Fortunately, they have been arriving in a gentle manner – they are more like passing images and impressions that float through my consciousness as I transition between being awake and asleep. I’m grateful for the gentleness of their arrivals – that they are not coming in violent flashes like I tolerated last summer . . . .

I am remembering taking Sunday afternoon naps in a basement bedroom at “X’s” house . . . the bedroom was near his office in the basement. I have a sense that he would walk into the bedroom while I was napping and wake me up.

I have a sense that he allowed me (encouraged me?) to touch him affectionately when he woke me up from my nap – as well as other times. I have a sense that he encouraged me to hold hands and link arms with him, to lay my head on his arm or chest, to pat his face . . .

I have a sense that I enjoyed doing that . . . because it was a form of affection that I was not experiencing at home. I have a sense that having his undivided attention and affection felt very good to me.

I have a sense that he justified his deviant behavior by the fact I “initiated” the “touching” – that I obviously “wanted it”. I think the guillotine blade that appeared in a recent dream represents what he did after I innocently reached out to him with affection. At least, that’s the passing impression I keep getting.

It would explain why I become physically paralyzed when I want to initiate affectionate touch.

It would explain why I feel unsafe when in the prone position.

It would explain why, at age four, I one day announced to my mother that I was too old to take naps. I remember not being able to give to her the real reason – but I didn’t recall the real reason until this week. The real reason was because my body would, as I attempted to drift into a nap, repeatedly jerk awake with every little noise. I would try to be compliant and fall asleep, but I would lie awake for the entire time I was supposed to be sleeping. I didn’t know how to explain all that to my mom, so I just told her I was too old for naps – and she bought it.

It would explain why I still am unable to take daytime naps, even as an adult. If I do lie down and shut my eyes, as soon as anyone shuts a door or answers a phone anywhere in the house (for example), my heart starts racing and my breathing quickens – and I snap back to full awareness.

It would explain why I feel trapped and out-of-control when someone gives me verbal instructions on how to perform physical fitness exercises or any other body-oriented activity.

It would explain why, as I’m writing this, my heart rate and breathing rate are accelerated – and why I find myself somewhat sexually aroused by the remembering.

(Deep breath . . . it’s okay, Marie, it is to be expected, given your history – nothing to be ashamed of)

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It is easy for me to be angry with “X” – or at least, it would be if I knew for sure he did what I think he did.

It is not so easy for me to be angry with another source of trauma . . . my parents.

This week, I went back over what I wrote about rationalizing the behavior of my parents, specifically the physical and emotional abuse they incorporated into their method of discipline. I have been resistant to holding them accountable for their behavior because they were doing the best they knew to do.

As I reviewed what I had written, a memory from childhood came flooding back . . . a memory of a time I intensely struggled with understanding my place in the world. I remember lying in bed, trying to figure it all out . . .

At the time, I didn’t have suitable language, only vague feelings. But now, if I go back and feel those feelings, I can put adult language to it . . .

In trying to figure it out, I reasoned that such punishment could only exist if at least one party was bad. If my parents were abusive because they were bad, there was space for the possibility I was a good child – a good child that was being treated unfairly.

If my parents were good, then they necessarily were acting in my best interest – which meant I must truly deserve what I was getting – which meant I must be a very bad child.

There was no doubt in my mind that my parents were good – they were “in tight” with God. However, I was still unsure about my standing with God and about my goodness. It was easy for me to conclude I must be a very bad child if I had to be punished that violently. This week I discovered I have continued embracing that conclusion even to this present day.

As an adult, I have consistently defended the goodness of my parents. I have been so attached to defending them that I had not noticed how their “goodness” came at the expense of my “goodness” (according to my childhood beliefs) — in other words, if they were good, I necessarily was bad. I had not been free to discern the untruth in my long-held belief that child-Marie was bad — until now.

I am now seeing the need to embrace the fact that all parties were/are good – imperfect, but good.

Including me.

[Private journal entry written on July 17, 2009]

This week, I watched an episode of A&E’s TV show “Obsessed” that featured a woman (“Vanessa”) struggling with skin picking. She showed up on-camera with band-aids on her face – and I was watching the show with several post-picking band-aids on my face – talk about hitting close to home . . . .

The Flower by Martin Chen

In the context of therapy, she came to realize that picking was the ultimate distraction for her. Each time she gets “stuff” to pop out of a pore or a zit, it is a huge victory for her. Picking allows her to experience a multitude of clear-cut successes in a life with no other form of success. When she picks, time stops for her. Her “real world” ceases to exist, along with all of her worries.

Aaaaarrrrrrrgggggg . . . so close to home.

I was mesmerized by the episode . . . a rare occurrence, to be sure, since TV doesn’t do much for me in general.

In my case . . . when I feel overwhelmed, I can slide onto my very familiar spot on the bathroom counter and put my face within a couple of inches of the mirror – close enough that I can see every single pore – and every single white head and black head and zit that is contaminating those pores. Time stops for me. My entire world becomes the size of one pore. All I have to do is “fix” those pores . . . clean them up . . . remove the dirtiness . . . remove the badness . . .

My focus on that one imperfect bump – that one clogged pore, that one prickly hair stub – becomes so intense that there is no room in my mind for any other thought – or any emotion. I am entirely consumed with plunging the straight pin into the bulls-eye of the pimple so I can see the junk explode outward. I experience the biggest rush when the explosion is violent enough to splat the junk onto the mirror . . . . . or when I finally snag that stubborn hair stub that has been at the heart of a persistent zit – and yank it out at the root . . . congratulating myself on my expert fishing technique . . .

I’m trying to think of a comparison to which a wider audience could relate . . . I can imagine a similar escape from reality occurs when people play challenging video games for hours on end . . . I don’t know from experience since video games have never appealed to me . . . but I can imagine the similarities . . . and that method of escape is usually socially acceptable . . . not considered disgusting and abhorrent . .

Anyway, maybe . . . as I’m picking, I could ask myself what emotion or feeling or thought or situation I’m avoiding . . . I could multi-task . . . picking and feeling, at the same time . . . . I wonder if it would help anything?