Being so different can cause a rejection of self, the countering voice of rationality so needed but rarely the first voice I hear. Awake yet again, the banging critic starts in but cut off immediately with a wiser gentler voice… it is not your fault. Don’t do that, do not blame yourself for this continual inability to sleep. Perhaps a resistance has built up towards the CBD oil.
Still my mind goes over the day. It was different from other days where my being feels as if it stays together quietly without disruption.
Samuel insisted that no new carpet be purchased without painting the walls. This was 8 months ago. I was fine with the walls, especially after scrubbing them down. The new color, picked by me, is still yellow but bright enough to require sunglasses.
Dam you Samuel. I’d love to blame him, as I’ve tended to do in all the years of our marriage. Someone needed to pay for my pain.
But this time, (I’ve grown see?) the responsibility is mine because I elbowed him away while choosing the color. Still the habit of blaming him remains, this time resisted. He just finished painting so out we go to find a rug. At the home improvement store the newly hired sales kid was exasperating.
While working with this very young inexperienced clerk, with huge rocks in his earlobes stretching holes in them over an inch wide, my eyes kept staring in wonderment. Quite quickly a manager was called after the third, “I don’t know,” in response to our very basic questions.
The manager was older, and with lazy slowness coughed up a few details of interest, though his demeanor suggested total disinterest. As Samuel worked through pricing I mentioned the many ads posted in repeated succession about free installation that neither were aware of.
“Oh yeah,” both sales associates proclaimed, as if being aware of what they really weren’t aware of.
We collected what scarce information we could heading back home for a breather. Then out again to another store. While this salesperson gave us the spiel, my eyes focused on her super long yellow fake finger nails that motioned avidly while she talked.
We went back to the original store buying the carpet from the boy with the fascinating earlobes. Again a manager was called to walk him through it.
By this time my system felt as if on divided over-drive… the body, the head, and the heart. But really, can’t a person spend a day shopping with her husband? I didn’t heed those feelings early on when one store was most likely enough for one day. We drove to one end of the county, to the other end, then back again.
Not falling asleep, the tossing and turning hated so much began. By 2 AM a second dose of Xanax was needed. The doubling of CBD oil tried first had no effect. It is medicine, you need it, but detesting the need. The improved self-talk comforted slightly with soft bits of gentle kindness.
Sleeplessness is not my fault, no matter how many avenues are driven down to see where my mistakes might be. Perhaps one store per day could have circumvented the sleeplessness. Though that thought arose early on, the idea was rejected preferring instead to just get the job done. Who knows what the reason is on any certain sleepless night.
Perhaps the real culprit it is the sham of our president committing serious amoral crimes getting away with it over, and over again. Trump, who likes to grab at other’s pussy’s, has always been one of the monsters of my childhood.
The sadness behind his ability to get away with countless crimes, and being a living container of all that is evil in the human race, ignites into anger. Then sadness wrapped in hopelessness descends once again. Are my hopes and beliefs of good winning over evil gone?
Perhaps there is no reason other than this life of mine means living with the effects of PTSD made permanent because no intervention was provided early on after repeated traumas.
My nervous system is busted, and cannot take too much stimulation, especially too many interactions with others. That is acutely taxing, more than I willingly admit or accept. Around others my antennae rise sharply. Are you lying, being real, or falsifying like the fake ‘trial’ happening here in America? Can you be trusted?
No, the answer is no. We all lie, or at least fudge the truth when it’s beneficial to oneself, and I cannot take it. I never will be able to. After the gum thrown down the hall, and the ensuing (almost) rape, Chet tackled my body then thrusting his penis up and down my eight year old vagina after managing to yank my pants down.
Sex was introduced to my child self with violence. Sex from then on was forever linked with force. That has never changed. Trust for any human being was forever gone. And gone too, a wholeness of being that came with my birth irrevocably shattered.
I fought at him unable to breath. Breath was chosen over fighting after that.
“Here,” he said, holding up a pack of gum that used to come in a box with pillow shaped gum squares. Chicklets, peppermint Chicklets.
The box was empty. Picking it up with dismay he slammed into me with a body much larger than mine, suffocating me. Trust will never come again. Like most other challenges before me, gentleness and kindness are far better thought patterns than the harsh critical bully.