A tiny break in my head

I realized a few minutes ago that this is the first migraine I have had in a long time. Whats strange to anyone other than me is “a long time between migraines” is two days. Two whole days with no migraine, no meds, for the first time in 5 years!!

While anyone else may not think thats a big deal, if I wasn’t having a migraine I’d be dancing around or even better, reading a book. May not seem like the most exciting celebration to anyone else, but books are in the top 10 things I love most in the world.


So woo hoo for now.

Chico the monster

Yes, I am really going to post about one of my dogs. It’s for a few reasons, one is that he is awesome, which might be like when a person has a kid and thinks its awesome, when the kid is just regular variety kid. Next is I started writing this story yesterday and it’s from a dogs perspective. It’s not horror, and not erotica (ew, from a dogs perspe… just, no), it’s just, well, sad. Really sad. Dianne read some of it and said “this is really depressing”.

a royal affairSo I’m taking a break from that depressingness today to play video games, annoy my dogs, watch youtube videos, and possibly watch the movie A Royal Affair

(which if you don’t know, its a historical drama with a little romancy bit, and its all in Danish, which is just the best combination of everything really. Unless someone has tea and danishes for me to eat while I watch it. Damn, now I’m disappointed I don’t have those things.)




Now, please meet one of my awesome dogs, Chico. I call him Chico Monster, and we often tease he looks like a dancing bear or one of those Racoon Dogs (do not google that term, you mostly end up with really depressing articles about them being made into shoes, which will make you possibly want to kill yourself, or someone, or just be filled with impotent rage).

chico 4

A Racoon Dog
Source: http://www.waza.org/en/zoo/visit-the-zoo/dogs-and-hyenas/nyctereutes-procyonoides

We adopted Chico from a rescue we used to foster for. He was already 9 years old, and his owner had passed away. The person taking care of him couldn’t keep him, saying her dogs didn’t like him, and that he pee’d on everything. He was a little mess when we picked him up. His left eye is missing (no idea why), his fur is all undercoat, and he was completely bald from top to bottom on his spine. Turns out he has a thyroid condition, which is why his fur is just the soft floofy undercoat and the baldness. He also had to have several teeth taken. Sometimes a combination of issues like that make a dog more adoptable, because he’s such a mess its considered cute.

We finally decided to adopt him when we left the rescue. We didn’t want him to move to another foster home, since that rescue was full (most are), and had quite a few fosters that were actually hoarders.  I just thought of his life, how he had this one person his whole life that loved him, and then that person was gone. Now he was being moved around for possibly years, until he found a home. I didn’t want him to feel like that, and I actually fell in love with him the longer we had him.

Now his thyroid is under control, but he’s older, so he’s developed a little arthritis, and begun to go blind in his existing eye. One of the things that makes him awesome is despite all of these things, he is so happy. He dances around when its time for dinner or treats.

So damn happy you can't be in a bad mood with him around

So damn happy you can’t be in a bad mood with him around

When I’m laying down on days I don’t feel good he snuggles onto my shoulder and does this strange snortle in my ears, which forever makes me laugh. Occasionally he’s protective of me, which is endearing except that he growls at Dianne when she kisses me goodbye in the morning. He’s a tough little guy, he takes all of his medicine, some of which he really hates (they eye medication primarily), without being a pain about it. Even some of his fur has grown back on his back, so he’s not all bald. He gets strange looks at the veterinarian, and a friend of ours has nicknamed him a “hot mess”. He has a kind of grumpy friendship with our other dog Butch, who is also a little older, and I call them my grumpy old men club.

I forgot to mention the snoring

Ok, one last favourite thing. Everything is his. If we foster puppies he tries to take care of them, cuddling with them, playing with them, and generally watching over them. When we took in a stray cat that our neighbours abandoned, every time we brought her to the bed to try to acclimate her, he always ran up like he thought “hey, you brought my cat!”. He does the same thing with our bearded dragon too. (If at this point you’re thinking, dear god this person has a lot of animals, you are correct).

Right now he’s sleeping on the couch next to me (with pretty much all the dogs), but he’s happiest when he can get as close to me as possible. He’s a manipulative little booger, and knows I won’t move him if he’s being cute.

I wanted to write more, but now I realize I’m rambling, and I actually have developed a really terrible migraine in the 20 minutes its taken me to write this, so I’m going to down a ton of pills and hope my brain stops trying to liquefy itself.

Not pictured: three other kinds of pills I had to take after these ones as well.

Not pictured: three other kinds of pills I had to take after these ones as well.

Keeping it Together

If you were to hear me talk about various things throughout my life, some of it is just not normal. I’m not going into many details, but this all comes off as very vague now that I’m reading it, so I’ll give a short description of the bad stuff I’m talking about. My parents are drug addicts, they have been my whole life. We were molested by a “family friend” for 6 years (who is in jail). My parents divorced, but that wasn’t so bad. My mom leaving my dad for her crack addict drug dealing nazi boyfriend was. She left me with my dad because I wouldn’t go. She took my sisters for years, as leverage in the divorce case for money, and to release herself from paying child support. In high school I was in a manipulative repeated date rape relationship, then proceeded to typical relationships with abuse, alcoholics, drug users, and all of the stupid things I could possibly let myself be convinced we’re worth the “love” of another person. And I was raped, a few more times (by women, so there’s a little help knocking that stereotype out of your head). Now, on to the important details.

People can understand bad relationships, and you can end up with various communities of people who had a significant other like yours. This is not where the problems lie.

Shitty things happened when I was growing up. There were times when things were OK, or good, but I knew, from being around other kids, that our life was not normal, not in a healthy sense anyways. I could go into how to define normal and all those basic needs a kid should have. I often say that I didn’t know any different, so how could I know bad things were happening, and for many things this is true. But bad things did happen, those things that either make a person stronger or completely tear them apart, and when they grow up, they’re these glued back together adults that are just repeating their parents mistakes.

I like to think, of my two sisters and I, that I’m the strong one. I keep it together. I graduated high school, never had a drug problem, didn’t get married a billion times, don’t have a bunch of kids running around. If I wasn’t sick, I could easily go back to at least two jobs that I’ve had. As far as I’m concerned, that’s pretty damn successful considering everything we went through.

But, and this is a huge but, I can only do this if I ignore all of the feelings and emotions about that part of my life. We don’t talk about it. I get upset, sometimes my sisters do terrible things, talking about it causes hurricane like shit storms that wipe us out for days. So I lock it all up, like a little room of horrible emotions I cannot deal with.

I can sit here and tell you story after story, and laugh and joke like its OK. It might seem I went through years of therapy to be able to do that. I can tell you what happened, but I can’t tell you how it felt. If I open that door, I am so afraid I won’t be able to close it. That I will fall apart so quickly that I don’t even know if I could survive it. I don’t know whats in there. Only lately I can feel that door trying to burst open. I can feel pain, and anger. Its so overwhelming that I have to force myself to calm down, push it all back in. If they’re just stories of things that happened, just memories in my head, then I don’t have to feel them.

If I let those memories take life, let the emotions out too, feel like my chest is breaking open and my throat is closing, what will all of it do? Where will it go? I don’t want to share these things. They’re horrible, they’re too horrible for even me to know, and I was there. How can I properly tell anyone else and expect their opinions about me and my life not to change? I get sickened at the thought of anyone knowing my life and feeling pity for me, and I’ve lost friends for it.

Two things have been causing everything to suddenly try to break out. The first are several rape awareness groups that I follow online. Suddenly those emotions found a way out, and pushing them back in is harder and harder. I want to help and support these groups, but when they ask for others to share their stories to help everyone know they’re not alone, I find myself shutting down. Its one thing to tell people I was raped, its quite another to say details about those times. I begin yelling “No, no” at the computer and shoving it away from me, like the words will spill out without my control.

The second is just life. For example, watching Shameless brings back memories of my life. I joke that I like the show because at least someones life was worse than mine, pretending a team of writers isn’t making all of it up. Once in a while it hits too close to home. Other days I think about writing, about a story I want to tell, but how do I tell these stories about my life without those feelings that seem so desperate to escape darkening my pages. How do I write to my friends that were around then, knowing I at some point should ask, did this happen to you too, because you stayed at my house? Did being friends with me hurt your life?

I haven’t slept, and I feel sick, more than usual. My brain is cracking open and spilling out so much, too much to feel, to much to live, and so I must retreat back to my bed. I must find things to distract my mind until that door is locked again, and I have the key finally secure.

I refuse to take my xanax for this. I will not dull my pain because I have pathetically lost control.