A Shaman Daughter
Sunday, February 17, 2008
I have the day sleeve on my arm [for my lymphodema] so I can renew typing/writing.
Still reeling by my own reaction to brother Dave’s visit. Being a Sensitive, or a Shaman has nothing whatsoever to do with being a witch. I know we have that history in our family, in our DNA. But I am not sure that Dave doesn’t use it as a “justification” for just about anything he wants to do. I honestly believe his addiction is active currently through gambling. Very strange…
I need a peaceful life, one without PTSD drama, without reenactment of past trauma memories. And having Dave here was almost like having my mother here. He is not at fault for any of my reactions, they are mine.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sometimes there’s an agony in my soul. It hasn’t been here for a long time, but it’s here today. The paxil seems to be helping, but I came home today and didn’t see ER, and then I panicked, missing him so much. Why does being able to see him so sooth my soul? And not seeing him so distress me? It makes me wish the cancer would have taken me – and that’s serious. And very very real.
Is this something evil? Is this my attachment disorder, my PTSD?
I have to fight this cancer when I don’t even want to be here.
Sometimes I feel like there’s a great hole in my soul and a harsh wind is blowing through it. Right through me. Stopping the wind is a hard thing to do. I don’t know how – except to see ER. This is tied to the “inability to self sooth.” I know it is.
This is a desperate feeling of being lost and alone, of not being able to be myself in this world, not being able to be myself and make a living. It is a feeling of being fragile – like the dry ice demonstration in my grade school years, or was it a fire extinguisher? That if it “happened” to your finger it would freeze it and then if you tapped your finger it would shatter into a million pieces.
Like I want ER to care, to comfort me in some way (which is not his job) – to save me, to salvage me. Tow me out of a canyon, out of the mud. Hook me up to the wrecker and drag me, tow me through the rough times of my soul.
Sometimes my hope is so fragile. ER is tangible to me. So much about life is not.
Hope must have something to do with having something we think we can count on, rely on.
They can perhaps fix the cancer and make it go away, but they cannot fix the PTSD. I am beginning to see that I have battled it all of my life, it keeps me poor, limited and stuck – and suffering.
With PTSD I cannot separate my reactions in the present when things trigger me. Past and present are stuck together with super glue and cannot be broken apart.
I feel bankrupt without resources. I feel I don’t have any competencies, or the peace of mind to work with those I might have – or to even identify them.
Lost in the mirrors of reminders. Making things reminds me of being a little girl under the pines trying to make something with the needles and ending in tears. Now I make things, and they aren’t worth anything – they don’t make me a living, nobody wants them – and I hear that “just like me.”
So my decisions are affected and my choices are narrowed and limited by this PTSD. I can’t see or think “straight” or “normal.”
RETURN TO MAIN PAGE: