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(the first post in this series is here:  On Being a Social Outcast  )

Another problem has started to rear it’s ugly head in this
no-addictions / no-obsessions trial.

!@!@!@ CRAP  @!@!@!

That’s all I can say…. Crap… Crap… Crap… and Damn It!!

I want this to be over.

I’m tired of being on the tracks… being hit by so many trains.

I want to get well!  And NOW!!!

I don’t want to be doing this anymore!

But I have to give myself a break… you know? After all it’s only been since August 15th of last year when I started on this journey. That’s only ten months; and the being completely off any addictions or obsessions really only started in February, so that’s just four months total. What do I expect!? Perfection from the get-go? I’m acting just like a sober new-comer would act. What am I doing, thinking I could get the cat in the bag in only a couple of month’s time?

… Just like a new-comer…

!!!I Hate This Right Now !!!

Oh well. On and on and on the journey goes. God has taken over. I’m no longer in control of this trip. He’s decided it’s time to get on with growing me up. I’m having a temper tantrum over it, but apparently He won’t be daunted. The journey will continue… like it or not… it’s going to continue. At this point I seemingly can’t addict or obsess even though I want to. I want to be done with this. But I just can’t do it. I can’t obsess or addict. I’m powerless. Like it or not, this ride on Space Mountain is going to keep going.  (For the two posts on Space Mountain:  click  HERE  )

Oh well. Now that I’ve got my complaining out on paper, I’m starting to feel a little bit better. For me, writing it down really helps.

So here’s my current predicament.

Last Sunday, in the midst of a hailstorm of PTSD flash-backing, I cut my forearm with a razor blade…

On purpose.

It was about a two inch cut and required thirteen stitches. There was a small second cut too that I didn’t know I did, which required another three stitches. So sixteen stitches in all. Do you want to know what the PTSD flash-backing was about?

Well, here goes. I’m so glad right now that I’m maintaining anonymity. This is really embarrassing to talk about. But honesty about myself has saved my butt many times in the past. AA calls it ‘pulling my covers’ or ‘cleaning my closet’. Honesty has proven to be of great help to me in the process of staying sober these last thirty four years.

So… here goes nothin’…

My husband and I began fighting over balancing the checking account. It got so intense that I pulled my fist back ready to cold-cock him. Then he pulled his fist back too. We managed not to hit each other. When I saw what he was ready to do, I put my arm down because I knew I couldn’t win that battle. He’s 6 foot 4 and very strong. About twice as strong as me. Many years ago we did have fist fights. But it’s been a long time since any of that crap happened. But this was a really intense fight. We were both screaming at each other tearing around from room to room. There was a lot, a lot of screaming and when he gets going he can be really, really, really loud!! Amidst the freakous I started to feel very powerless. I’m only 5 foot 5. I’m not nearly as loud as he is. I’m not very strong either. It felt like he was holding all the cards… and I had none.

So I quit. I began to acquiesce. I said “Uncle”. But he wouldn’t stop screaming. I said; “I’ll do it your way. I’ll do it your way. I’ll do it your way.” But he just wouldn’t stop screaming. Apparently he didn’t think I was cow-towing to him enough. That’s when the PTSD flash-backing started.

(I’m crying right now as I’m writing this).

So I began asking him if he wanted my blood.

“What do you want?!
Do you want my blood?!
Do you want my blood?!
Do you want my blood?!
What do you want?!!

But he wouldn’t answer me. He just kept screaming. My head began to swirl. I stopped hearing his words. All I could hear was the screaming. And there’s was nothing I could do to get him to stop.

It began to seem like I was back with my father… all over again. No, I mean really… back with my father. The haze of PTSD took over as my husband morphed into my father’s frame. I was catapulted back to 1960’s when my father would drag me to the living room and ‘do his thing’ with me. He’d beat me in such a way that I thought I would not live through it. I could not stop him either, no matter how much I tried. Here’s a post on what the beatings were like…

And This is the Way He Would Beat Her

……….*  *  *……….
More tears.
I needed this catalyst.
I need the tears.
I haven’t cried about this yet.
……….*  *  *……….

That’s when I went to the box where I keep some razor blades…. came back… and calmly cut myself. Then I held out my arm and asked him again.

Do you want my blood?
Here’s my blood.

He stopped screaming.

Then I got myself in my car and went to Urgent-Care to get stitched up.

Am I a cutter?… No.

Was I trying to kill myself?… No.

Then there’s the Big Question…

Why didn’t you leave???

Here’s the thing about PTSD flash-backing. It includes the whole scene you get catapulted into. That means… all of it. And part of it was the reality that I could not, in any way shape or form… get away from my father. I was eight and he was thirty eight. As a child, I was his prisoner. During the PTSD flash-backing I became a child again… with all the ‘no rights’ of a child. Children have no rights.

People need to be more careful with their children. They have no way to defend themselves. They have no rights.

Please don’t worry about me. God is making sure that I will overcome. I know that. If there’s a next time. I’m going to be ready with a prayer so that God will help me… get away.

(the next post in this series is here:  I’m Still on the Damned Roller Coaster Ride!

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