Broken

I'll warn you this is a real life post and will be emotional painful and explicit. Just because you lie in a bed or sit in a wheelchair, the physical, mental and emotional pain doesn’t go away.

My last post on laying down my life, is what I want for my life: to give it in service. But the more you expose yourself, open yourself, take emotional risks, and give your heart, then the more severe the emotional pain when you are attacked. And I am attacked, drained, emotionally slaughtered often daily and yet I go on. How?

I don’t. I broke. People treated me as non-human for so long and so often that I believe it. So many people over my life, over this last year told me I was a monster, a thing, an object, that when all I received for hour and hour, day and day was abuse I believe it. I believe it, but I still give, I sent out 64 postcards this weekend. How? I mean, with ‘spoon’ theory, and with my disease I have about 40 spoons a day. I spend 75-80 spoons a day because I can’t stop. I can't stop caring. And now BECAUSE I am in so much pain, I simply can’t stop, because the pain has to mean something right!?

My GP refuses to respond to the need to see my pain specialist, the same GP who withheld the appointment so he could tell me I was ‘abrasive.’ I am in a LOT of pain. I am in pain every day, every minute of every day, and I am in a great deal of emotional pain, because the harder I try, the bigger the crash when people act.....well like people and treat me like a slot machine or an animal to be controlled instead of a human being. In a recent survey of responses to postcards the responses over a particular period were including email: 3% negative responses (“You didn’t send the right type of postcard!”), 1.5% positive responses and 95.5% silence. And yet I did another 64 this weekend. Because YES, I am insane. Because someone out there might be silent but needing it all the same, right? Or am I insane? It always rains here. Everything is hard, and yet I go on because I have to believe that it will help people. And sometimes it does. Because people write or email me to say they aren't going to talk to me anymore because they are better, they don't need me. But what if I need them? Haha, I'm EFM, I don't need what humans do, right?

I get emails, blog comments and post saying it just isn’t possible for me to do everything I do and be that ill. Except I haven’t watched a film through in something like a year, I don’t read books, I don’t have time to read blogs much, I work from the moment I get up and if my hands shake to much then I use my teeth or speak. When I can’t speak, I organize, when I am too weak to hold a drink, I slowly match postcards to people one postcards at a time. So no, no one can live with this disease and do as I do. And that is probably why I am resuscitated multiple times a weak. Probably why my heart is too tired to beat, and my lungs too tired to open.

Then AFTER I almost died, permanent, I worked even MORE. I bleed every day, my skin is so thin. And several days ago I had a complete and total breakdown. A breakdown in which I am still present, and in fact, working MORE than before, I am using the disassociation from being raped to keep going. I am eating myself, I am destroying myself and my Hope to keep going. Because there are no doctors, there is no one to help me. I am emotional pain and physical pain, both beyond endurance.

I get hate mail. I get comments that I don’t approved that put me into seizures. I recently spent all day communicating with a person who openly admits, without remorse, to deliberately hurting me every day for the last several years. I think they like me. But if I ask them a question, they will see it as an attack, and deliberately hurt me again. Recently I went into a seizure when a person told me they had had gone into a pet shop and bought some animals. Then they went home and tortured them to death so they could be erotically aroused by the sound of them dying. They told me because it was ME, entirely ME that inspired them, to take that step: they wanted to thank me. I started screaming and screaming. And then I had a seizure, because something I said or did got animals tortured to death. I get about five emails with that type of emotion level a week.

People treat me like an object. They try to control me, to order me around like an animal. Even Linda’s plan was to ‘force me to lie on the couch.’ – People don’t ask me, they tell me, carry me, restrain me because I am not human, I am a machine, a fiction, a lie, a monster. That is my family, my extended family, readers, people who send me post, dozens of people in actions and words. There is a world out there, where humans live, but I don’t live there. I am tied to a post, or ordered here where humans examine me and then pass me on. I am owned, by Linda, but she sometimes lends me out.

The good news is that I am not cutting anymore. The bad news is that I am actively suicidal, even though I want to live. See, I am never allowed to BE sick, not by the paid care givers, who demand I entertain them, or my family who decide they want a 'long term' relationship, or with Linda who still falls in patterns where I, super-able Beth will solve the problem. Except I have brain damage and am very sick. And ME? I'm the worse. I can’t ask for help, only respond to the unending calls FOR help. The problem is that after a while you burn out, and if you keep going after you burn out, you go insane, which is why I wrapped a metal chain around my neck and tried to induce a stroke to kill me yesterday. I did raise the pressure enough to get a blood burst in my eye, but I was ‘saved’, I think the third time that day?

I just woke up from a series of six nightmares. Even without the feeling of absolute terror and the inability to move, these are fairly graphic. I had been trained, much as I was trained from a young age, to be a dog (my father used to use a whistle, and tap his leg, or if he was angry because I was not responding, say sternly, “Heel!” to pull me back with his invisable whip to walk perfectly beside him. When he used the whistle I was to come with an attitude of eagerness of wanting to obey – this is when I was age two or three. If not the right speed or atitude I was punished and I mean corporal punishment. I was to obey his commands, and obey them completely without thought or question before returning. If you want the entire code I can still say it word for word as I did as soon as I could stand - or you could just look in an old dog training manual - about 1960's). In my nightmares, I was my age only these people I trusted, they used the code word by which they had trained me, “bitch” and I went into the all four doggie position. At which time every person raped me, individually. One after another. Some anally, some vaginally. Then they called for the dogs, dobermans, and all sorts of different breeds. I was in the bed of a pick-up truck on all fours and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t disobey. And then the dogs raped me too. I woke up and every time I went back to sleep it continued, for three straight hours. The last time, I begged Linda to let me get up, but she said the sleep would do me good. I told her I was having nightmares. She told me later that she thought, if I had survived so many nightmares, what difference would one more make. Bark Bark. I am a bitch; a dog, and she is my owner, so I obeyed and for another 90 minutes I was raped. With the whole heavy blanket of terror and the struggling to move, to be able to do SOMETHING that occurs in a nightmare.

Linda says that she finds it interesting that even my subconscious has accepted that I am less that human, I am less than a dog, I am something DOGS rape. I offered to cut ‘bitch’ into my forehead, but she declined. She went to get a drink.

See, I think if I screamed for help, I would only be raped by new people. I am a thing, and this is what you do to things: you use them. If I have a heart, I give it to everyone. Because I don't know who needs the help, and a majority of the time, actually a VAST majority of the time it comes back stomped on, HARD.

The problem with physical pain is that the pain gets into your mind, it gets into every part of your body, it makes it so hard to think, that even though you know you are losing perspective, you lose it anyway. You are reduced to tears for 45 minutes because someone you love gives you a shoulder bag that you can only use while walking. And they know you can only use a wheelchair....but they don’t want to accept that. I just need to TRY HARDER, and GET BETTER!! See, that is the pain, partially talking. Little things become big because you are put into a little box where it just hurts all the time, and it has hurt like that for about six weeks. I have offered to many people to just go ahead and break one of my fingers to see if I could feel it above the pain? Or just break it to see what happens. See, that’s not very rational. Except that when that is where you live, in that box of pain, then it is easy to see your body as just a thing and people who are ordering you around as masters. The entire medical establishment is based on controlling you and your body. So is care giving, often. Telling people what to do. Control. Tie your leash to a post.

It is good that there is no tomorrow for me because I don’t know how many more tomorrows of this I can take. My neck hurts where the chain bit into it. Sure there is still a part of me that wants to live, and live on, and do good. Just right now when I only hear what a CRAP job I did, I am not sure what good there is. And yeah, I’m so, so inspirational that I inspire people to do terrible, terrible things. I am an object and I will be what you want; command me and I will obey. I continue because.....I don’t know why. Because sometimes, when I stop breathing, it is like being in a cool room with no pain at all, no pain at all, until they resuscitate me. So I keep going because I don’t want to fail Linda, or the careworkers who need me to get paid, or the readers, or the people who want things or the medical staff which has careers, not based on helping me, but doing tests. I have done over 200 tests and I have no treatment. I have had my thyroid tested 5 or 6 times and yet, I don’t have synthetic thyroid. I have had my anemia tested 4 times, including one by the hospital ordering the doctor to treat and yet, I am not treated. I have a sheet for a blood test on anemia and thyroid. Know why I can’t have any ‘real’ painkillers? Because…“you could become addicted.” Really, because dying is pretty addictive. But being in agony every minute, isn’t. Not really. Want to break my finger doc?

Do no harm right? Or was it ‘Cover thy ass?’

I have been raped, in my dreams by a large percentage of male, and a lot of dogs; while in reality only a small percentage of males in North America. I remember my first theological sexual counselor, who was to answer to me, questions like, “Did God think I deserved this?” When he found out I was 10 as a, um, sexual partner, he muttered, “God” – and I was like, “No, see, this is the problem, was God in the bed too? Was God watching, waiting for me do something? Or does God just like watch? What did I need to do to be saved?” See, sexual abuse and torture is the gift that keeps on giving. Come and put your stamp on me! My previous male therapist was offended because I didn’t want to know his name, because I WANTED to objectify him. He demanded, “What do I do to make myself real to you! What do I need to do to make you know me!”

“Rape me,” I told him. “Rape me, and I will always remember YOU.”

The thing about a brain with temporal and frontal lobe damage is lots of fun strong emotion and as time goes by, the memories just get brighter and more negative. Because the negative ones are the ones triggered by the pain I am in all the time. So I remember things that people want to forget. Or want me to forget. Bark bark!

This is me screaming.