Not a victim...

I often have a lot to say about what has or is happening in my world. The hurts and disappointments and even the cruelties and abuses. And yes, I talk about them. I talk about my feelings about them; the way they hurt me. I talk and write and cry and purge. But I also take blame. No human deserves many of the things I divulge have happened to me. None of it is right. Most of it is unacceptable. But I have not just been "unlucky." It isn't all by chance. I chose it one way or another.

Here's the thing. I got a lot of messages in my early life. And even if you have only ever stratched the surface of psychology, you probably know that those messages stick and are hard to remove. And when they removed, something has to replace them. It isn't like putting a new version of software on your conputer and the old one is erased and gone in one simple step and 1 minute reamining until the bar reaches 100%. No, it is more like the programmer having to go in, troubleshoot, sort through all the code, find the specific errors and delete them. But then, that programmer also has to go in and rewrite new code to replace the deleted errors. Then he has to go through a whole series of debugging and testing and debugging and testing until everything is functioning correctly and better than it was before. Then it is ready to release. After a while, new problems show up or new information comes along and the process starts all over again to make the program better and better. It's a long process. And it goes on as long as the program exists. The mind is the same.

So, these messages I received and the ones that have stacked on top of them since have to be deleted and reprogrammed. Every time I go through the process of reprogramming, I miss things or new messages come along and create new things that need troubleshooting. Some problems have been overlooked. Or, more correctly, I thought I fixed them but I only identified them and they weren't properly deleted and reprogrammed. They came up again. And new things came on top of them.

So, what's my point? I have issues just like everyone else. Everyone has some baggage of some kind. Some people were programmed better than others in the first place and their issues are easy to solve. But some, like me, weren't. And the program is complicated and messy and requires more.

Am I just an unlucky victim? No. I chose people in my life who act a certain way and do certain things.  Not on purpose. I didnt go to the people store and look for these features on purpose. No, some backdoor in my subconscious picked them for me. I chose to be treated this way. I can cry and whine and complain and ask for sympathy all I want. But somewhere in my programming, I have a section of code that requests people that do these things to me. And I thought I fixed that. I really did. But I didn't. I chose it again, however naively. However subconsciously. I chose it and I stayed with it. And the program worked just as I coded it to. And it was vulnerable to the same viruses.

I am not a victim. I am responsible for the things that have happened. I chose them. And there's little to do about what HAS happened. All I can do is go back in,  find the bad code, try to delete it, and try again to recode it. And until I do, I shouldn't allow that part of me to be released.

In other words, maybe I shouldn't try this relationship thing anymore. Maybe never again. Because I may never get that programming right. That part of me may just always be shut down for maintenance. All the same, I take responsibility. I know I am faulty. I know I'm imperfect and can't run smoothly. I know. And that's ok. I'll keep trying to get to those messages and dump them. I'll keep trying to reprogram them. That's the best I can do.

Open letter to those who oppose my disclosure of abuse

Dear You Know Who You Are,

I hear you. You may not think I hear you, but I hear you. You may think that your words are harmless. You may think they are private. You may even think they are justified. You may even think I will never hear them. But I hear you. Eventually. Always.

I hear you saying those things about me. I hear you saying that I am wrong for sharing my feelings. I hear you saying I must be crazy. I hear you saying how wrong I am for letting it all out there for anyone to read. I hear you say I am embarrassing myself and maybe even embarrassing you somehow. I hear you. Loud and clear.

I hear you saying I must be telling lies. I must be making things up. There must be something wrong with me. I must be stopped. Lock her away. Silence her. Make sure she keeps her voice silent. Bring her back here and put her under lock and key. There must be something that can be done. These dirty secrets must be kept. I hear you.

I hear you saying I am a problem. I hear you saying I am THE problem. Because I speak. Because I open up. Because I share the realities of what goes on inside my head, my life, my world. Because I don't hide behind the fake wall of appearances. Because I stood up. Because I fought back. Because I am living. Because I chose my own environment. Because I refuse to settle for misery. That is a problem.

I hear you saying that everything I am doing is wrong. I hear you calling me a bad person, a bad mother, a bad woman, a bad everything. I hear you. Did you know I hear you? Did you know it travels from your conversations behind me to my ears? Did you know?

I hear the question, "Why cant she be normal?" "Why doesn't she just do this or that or this?" "Why can't she just do what I think she should?" "What is wrong with her?" I hear you. Over and over again.

So here is your answer:

You see me. You see my feelings. You see my reactions to the world around me. You see the strong emotions, good and bad. You see me because I chose to share. But you don't see everything. You don't see everything I am reacting to. Because I am the sharer. I am telling MY truth while the others around me are not. I am in the tornado with the camera set to record but all you can see is my face, not the turbulence around me. You don't see the unpredictable around me tossing me here then there. You dont see the sheer force of the wind in my face. Or, you refuse to believe it, which is more likely. Because it isn't that hard to see. Unless you truly don't know me at all. And in that case, why can I hear you? Why are you even speaking my name from your lips?

But what I can't understand, no matter how hard I try, is the words that put me down for accomplishing my goals. The words that turn me into a negative for wanting my own happiness. The words that insult my drive to do better things inside of this tornado. My desire to get out of the turbulence and find shelter. To be safe and strong and rebuild.

I am choosing me. I am choosing me because I haven't been left with a lot of other choices. I am choosing me because no one else is. I have been left alone to make the choice. No matter what version of the story you want to tell, I have been left with only two options: choose me or lose me. The real me. The authentic me. Acceptance wasn't a variable in the equation anymore. And if you don't have the information that helps you understand why it wasn't, perhaps you shouldn't make these judgments. Because I hear them. Are you sure you can make them? Are you sure you have all the information?

I hear you. And it hurts. And I am so tired. But I get up and go forward. I keep moving. I use it to gain strength.  I chose to get up off the ground and fight my way through this tornado. So, I guess I should thank you for your petty words or your stinging bullets or your ammassing hatred. I should thank some of you, even, for taking actual action against me. I should thank you for all these things you don't think I hear. Because it helps, in its own fucked up way, I guess. When the tears are mopped up, I am stronger. All the fighting for myself against the strong winds makes me stronger. And I know that makes you even more bitter. That I keep refusing to stay on the floor when you try to knock me down. That I won't cower to you just because you're a bully.

That is because I don't respect you. You havent given me a reason to. I respect myself. I've earned that from me.

But, just one burning question keeps coming back to me: Why do you care? What have I ever REALLY done to you? Do you even know?

So talk away. I hear you. I listen. And then I move forward. I get up. I get better. Always.

Against the Current.

When we first got to Mexico, we would go almost every day to a pier to swim and lay in the sun and generally enjoy the ocean. If you jumped off this pier, you had two choices, swim to shore or climb back up onto the pier. The climb up was about 5 feet and the only thing to facilitate was a hanging rope with a small loop at the bottom and a board to step on. Once you were on the board, you still had to somehow hoist yourself up about 3 1/2 feet by pure strength. When we first got to Mexico, I would look at this scenerio and just shake my head. I couldn't do it. I simply wasn't strong enough. My body was in the throes of my mostly untreated (at the time) disease and I could barely grasp the rope with my hands, much less gather the  strength or coordination to do any other part of that nightmare. I tried. I really did, but I just kept falling down again. I'd swim to the shore or there would be some collective effort to hoist me up enough that I could roll onto the pier with the grace of a walrus doing ballet.

I'd jump in the water and when I was ready to exit, I'd just stare at that rope and board. It looked to me like a mountain. A mountain I kept failing to climb. And I resented my body and my disease because I couldn't climb it. But I kept trying. Every day. One day, I made it to the board without falling. Another day, I rolled myself onto the pier without anyone having to pull or push or hoist. Then, one day I didnt have to roll anymore. I could lift myself up and put a knee on the pier. And then, I found myself easily lifting myself out of the water over and over again. I remember one day, after I'd pushed myself up without even thinking, I turned around and smiled. I was getting stronger.  I was getting better. I was winning this war.

The first time I dove here, I had to take 2 days to recover. I hadn't seen that coming. Diving wasn't HARD, or it never had been before. It was non-impact. It didnt HURT. What was going ON? WHY was I so tired? Why did my body ache so much? What? I was completely devastated. I thought that I'd had diving taken away from me. I'd already resigned myself to the idea that I'd probably never climb mountains again. Backpacking was out of the question. All these things that had been my passion, that made me feel ALIVE, were fading out. Being stolen from me. I was hanging my hat on diving. It was still possible. But then it kicked my ass. The next time I dove, I took a day and a half. Then a day.

But now. Now, I am a divemaster. Now I can dive 4 dives a day for days in a row. I have spent almost all of the last month diving. I can carry myself up a ladder wearing full scuba gear. I can carry two tanks. I carried a grown man up a ladder and up stairs. I swam a half mile within a time limit. I swam a 1/4 mile full sprint in a trubulent ocean against the current with waves toppling me over and the clock counting down. I wasnt supposed to be doing that alone but the other quit and I just kept going. I kept swimming. Alone. My body ached and it told me to quit too. It told me I was pissing it off. It told me I'd be sorry. I just kept going. And then, I had to tow a grown man against the current in the water. This was, by far, my biggest challenge. My body quit the first time. I didnt finish. But this day, I didnt quit. I hit some point where I was only strong enough to move the man about an inch a minute (or that is how it felt). My body was shutting down and the pain in my feet and ankles and hips was incredible. I was putting every ounce of effort I had into it and was barely moving. But I didnt quit. Cold pools and frozen joints and so much frustration. So many times when I believed that I'd asked too much of myself and my body. So many times I had to fight not just my body but my mind too. But I didnt quit. And now Im a divemaster. Maybe it doesn't seem like much to the healthy, able-bodied out there, but to me, It means everything.  I did it. I am a divemaster.

And on Day 2 of my instructor course.

And Im proud.

Hibiscus farm

Jamaica water is everywhere here. Its mass produced. That could only mean one thing. Somewhere in the world, probably in Mexico, there is a hibiscus farm. I want to go there. Maybe live there. Can you imagine?

Can't Not

#WhiningRantStart
So, I had this MASSIVE headache all day from lights in a classroom. #sensitivitytolight #sjogrens

THEN I got some serious ankle/foot pain from staying in the same knees on the bottom of the not so warm pool position for a couple of hours. #jointpain #stiffness #sensitivitytocold #RA

After the pool, I had to review some things for a test tomorrow #fuckyoumath and I was unconsciously putting pressure on my temples for the headache. The instructor noticed and asked me if I was stressed #fromthefuckyoumath. I said I just had a headache from the lights (which probably sounded #weirdandwhiny.) She asked if I wanted to review the material tomorrow and this was my sincere thought (I even almost said it out loud):
"If I let every symptom of my #motherfuckingtrifectaof disease(s) stop me from doing things, I'd never do anything. Most of the time you won't notice I'm in pain #ImAlwaysInPain or I have a fever #iprobablydo or some weird ass thing is going on in my body or I caught some cold or germ from some person on the other side of town or my vision/coordination/strength/energy/mouth/foot/hand/toe/vagina/fingernail/one brain cell/fuckingwhothefuckknows is doing something completely weird that I couldnt explain to you without a full set of wikipedia pages and a youtube video or two about my #goddamnedmotherfuckingtrifectaof disease(s). So just do what I do and ignore it like it isnt there unless I collapse or just get so sick of it I tell you I HAVE TO STOP. But if you could give me a piggy back ride home, THAT would be awesome, cause I really don't want to walk."

But I just said something else instead.

I finally got home at 7pm and downed ibuprofen like a fiend and I feel as better as I ever do. Maybe I will get that piggy back ride another day.

#adayinthelife

#WhiningRantEnd

PS. I found out today I have to swim half a mile again. #IdRatherDoMath