All the breakup rants and the Plan for the Future.

I appreciate therapy more as I go without it for spells. I have boiled down my time to fit weeks, sometimes months, of info into 90 minutes or less. A key question Kimberley asked me a few months ago that I’m using as a goalpost for 2017 is “where is your self-worth?” At the time, it was not where it should have been. I was letting myself be traded for my livelihood, something I’ve been re-enforcing through my life, consciously and otherwise. It reaffirms the base lessons that the incest seared into my brain. I had accepted myself as disabled, but aside from getting enough insurance to take antidepressants, I was nowhere. Depression thickened like my apartment air. My partners could not reach me, and I may not have been available for comment, anyway. So, I left Matt. I moved in with Niki.

Niki lived with her dad, Brian. He has MS and a genetic stubbornness problem. Niki had a house, a dependent parent, a full-time job, two untrained dogs who didn’t understand how to use a dog door, and no extra time. I had time in abundance, between nightmares and the pieces I lost. If I could help at night, I could help. I moved in and started helping.

I have the good fortune to be “out” in most all of my life. Many people do not. I hope I never cross a line that makes someone feel “outed” without their consent.

We hide our truths in the intimate places between people. There were nights when I held Niki because I couldn’t find anything else in the waking world, and she kept me tethered, giving me a place to be, even if I couldn’t be. I loved her. We had a beautiful dynamic.

We had a beautiful dynamic when we were at our best. Living together changes things. Adding family and money changes things. Our lives did not sync together magically. I did not unpack for a while. And before the end, I had started to pack again. My place felt awkward, uninvited and unearned. My experience is tainted by myself. I did not know how to live with a father figure, let alone one that was in the house 24-7. Brian is wheelchair bound. The company, I thought, would be good for both of us. His depression was obvious and understandable; something I shared for different reasons. The house was where Niki had grown up. Parts of it had not been cleaned since around then. Again, with the time constraints and physical issues, it all made sense. Here was something I could help for the better. A concrete way to enrich my girl’s life, the life of those she loves, to help her have a place for her nephew and friends to visit.

I am not a selfless person. I was provided for by money I did not earn. I am not an idle person. I contributed how and when I could.

In relationships, our layers bud and bloom and bud again, like jasmine overnight. I didn’t see things clearly until I was closer. Neither did she.

I’ve been explaining it to vanilla people with the phrase “she cheated on me,” but it isn’t that simple. (Is it ever?) At the core of the betrayal was miscommunication, and lack of communication, and mistakes. Niki disappointed me. People do that. I am sure I’ve disappointed her as well, and/or any number of other people. We wanted to work through it. We tried. For months, we tried.

It didn’t work. For numerous reasons that are private and public, it did not work.

She asked me to leave her house. I told her I was breaking up with her. I got some of my stuff and moved into Matt’s guest room. The very place I’d left because I’d been taken for granted. Over the time I’d lived at Niki’s, Matt had come to appreciate what I did for him when we had lived together. Things had changed in how he treated me, and the time he spent with me. We were talking differently; talking alone was a big step. Still, Matt did not invite me to live with him. I imposed on someone who has my furniture. The place I’d been ejected from was a place where I was invited to not be taken for granted, and yet that is exactly what happened. My forgiveness was not recognized because it didn’t come alongside my cunt. The promises of “my home too” from my now-ex were null and void. I hesitate to say they were not accurate when they were stated, but it was a temporary condition. Of course, she would stay in her childhood home with her father and I would leave. Nonetheless, it hurt.

She got ugly with it. Her friends told me they were getting different stories from both of us, so I don’t know what she told people. I know she posted about our breakup on social media and then blocked a number of people who thought of her as a friend because I was notified by those people. Her dad unfriended me on social media, which surprisingly, hurt. He doesn’t even know the story, I tell myself, even now. He can’t because it would require Niki to be open and honest with herself, and then another person. I hope she can get there one day, for her own sake. People do what they think is best given the pieces they have to work with. Brian will always side with his daughter. I know how much he loves that girl, even if she doesn’t get it.

I made it down south, to my boy. I’ve been soaking in the love he lays out for me. He kissed me on New Year’s Eve at Tina’s party. The way he is so purely good scares me half to death. I think of other good men-Ryan Gaston-who have offered me so much, and I ran the other direction. I want to be near my boy. He’s so good for me. I can keep pushing the idea that I am not good enough for him to the back of my mind.

The cat comes inside, meowing. I pick her up and she purrs against my palm. I think suddenly, “I hate Niki”. It catches me off guard. I sound venomous in my mind. I’m livid. I cannot believe she would betray me this way, so many ways, and be so fucking cavalier about it. I am beside myself with rage that I cannot tell everyone exactly what happened, damn her insecurities, and if she’s ashamed of what she does, maybe she shouldn’t fucking do it in the first place. I find myself on the floor, the cat licking my tears. I’m stricken with the loss of new friends and family, the kind we were both developing for each other. The hours and hours of my time, planning and working and being all but exploited. I am so mad I can’t see straight. I’m glad I don’t have to see her, because I wonder if the urge to harm her would be strong enough that I’d need to leave the room. Mostly, the lies are what lingers. Like barbs from tracker jackers that I missed after the initial attack. Her telling me that the time I made for her nightly meant something-well, that’s probably a lie, because she told DaddyWhatsHisName that she wanted that from someone. Implying she did not get it from someone.

She didn’t even use my name. I didn’t have the worth to be named between the lunches I made her, the times I cleaned or painted or repaired her house, or helped her father. And the asshole who went along with her didn’t think that “Mistress” meant anything, apparently, because he never said a goddamn word.

I have to get out of this wheel house.

My new phone is in process and Jared is spending every waking minute working to make me feel empowered as a person. I will never be good enough to deserve that man. I am totally going to try and lock him down anyway.

I’ll be going back to Colorado in February. Most of my belongings are there, scattered throughout the homes of those cursed to have seen me naked. I’ve left Niki and ended romantic/kinky/sexy ties with Matt. As I stand on the porch in the humid south, I am still looking northward, just past the lit-up star, where a flower stands. I’m going to go back and tend that bloom as long as I can. Now I’ll have the time and energy that she deserves.

I don’t think I can be with someone who can’t be without me. My partners have to be strong enough to stand on their own. I need people that can grow their own roots and tend themselves now and again. Strong, tall, blossoms, with yellow kisses from the sun.

Depending on weather and scheduling, I’ll be back in the Parish for Mardi Gras. Ideally for Baccus. Chalmette will be my home base, officially.

I’m allowed to be happy. I’m allowed to have good things. I’m a good person, dammit, and if people don’t agree, I hope they remove me from their lives. I’ll heal. I’m really good at healing. However, finding another Brittany is hard to do.

Haikus at 4am

As a Top, growth
is a requirement. I
won’t tolerate less.

Scenes I plan revolve,
involving changes in life,
so we can evolve.

I stew and brew and
my anger feels very real.
Still, nothing happens.

A spider bite on
my neck itches, skin crawling,
my hairs stand on end.

Only when I look
back do I feel loss. My present
is bright and peaceful.

My forgiveness does
not come from my cunt, but from
my words, ya dumb bitch.

I am in poly
dynamics so that I can
say no without guilt.

Please, Lordisa, bring
another person into
her life. Break needed.

The distance between
Colorado and Chalmette,
an ocean away.

Finest weed south of
the mason-dixon, exhaled
from Bilbo, no joke.

After Katrina,
losing belongings seems trite.
Still, I want my stuff.

Angry hatred floods
my System, and I know I
truly loved that girl.

If it comes down to
you or me, I will pick me.
I can’t regret that.

Therapy only
works if you are honest, with
everyone involved.

American made
glass-on-glass hits hard, heavy,
the way I like it.

I attract victims.
My courage under pressure
will not fix your life.

New Personal Best:
Breakup complete in under
five minutes. No scene.

Thankfully, I don’t
cry most of my feelings. It
seems awful from here.

Puff, puff, pass. Cashed.
Shit, if we’re smoking, I’ll hit
it.I blaze for real.

As I go to bed
the day reflects in my mind.
I’m a good person.

Debates with Myself; my only real Opponent.

Over the last eight days, I have been pondering my place in this state. I’ve been listing what I’m doing and why it matters, making note of reasons to live anywhere and reasons to live here. I’ve been polling the voices, gathering conclusions, and uncovering fears. My webs of thoughts bunch in sticky spots and gleam when dew drops slide down the long, narrow strands of reason. Am I the spider or the fly? Displayed beautifully, my ideas and rationalizations still gather bodies for the slaughter. Or do they? Am I deluded with my own self-importance? …Screamed the dust speck.

Today, with much pride and a surprising tone of confidence, I told my therapist, “I’m a good and giving person”. That woman has been telling me that I’m a good person since 2006. Given my notes from this week, I am able to say that by all my accounts, I am generous and generally good. Granted, I may be biased. It’s not a scientifically held up survey. My therapist’s eyes went wide when I said it. “I’m a good and giving person.” She confirmed it for me and then said that everyone else has known it for a long time.

I’m not perfect. I have crazy and vices and many inabilities. However, I am hardworking. I am clever and self-motivated. I am active. I’m faithful and I’m honest. As I get older and fuck up more, I learn better ways to communicate. There is little I say about anyone that I cannot say to them. I am a woman of integrity. I’m a good person. I never thought I’d be able to say that and believe it.

In my imperfection, I have been sharply reminded that I cannot sustain my life single-handedly at the moment. Maybe I never will. Maybe that’s my real fear: being dependent for the rest of eternity. Marriage says a lot of things to me that others don’t hear, and one of those things is dependence. My freedom was hard earned and I am not done with it yet, thanks. I may not be for a while.

Because of my years of work and my picky tendencies, I was met with a breaking wave of support. I have great friends. I am warm and fed, clothed and content. I have more than most and I have the intelligence to know it.

I sought the advice of trusted friends. I was surprised by the answers I got. I kept the silence requested. Unexpected calm seeped into my days. No one cried on me for more than five days in a row. My shoulder hasn’t been that dry in months. I find time to feel more. I ask myself questions I’ve been avoiding. I stretch and copy Katie’s exercises and get my hair cut. I’m told that this change was what I needed; what we both needed. I’m told that people are not worried about me. “If there’s one person who I think could survive anything, it’s you.” “You’ve been through bigger things than this.” “You are very good at putting in the work, and knowing when to leave. Trust yourself.”

As the fog of drama, fury, and manipulation clears, I see the many good things. I’ve been discovering some downsides of poly I’d not previously considered, and now I’m faced with a benefit I’d also missed. When one relationship breaks down, a poly person may have other healthy strong dynamics to help through the difficult tims. I am one such fortune person. People who have every reason to feel off-put have been at my side. I have a choice of places I can stay. I don’t want to test how many are genuine offers vs. said to offer comfort and moral support, but the idea that I do not have to want for a roof gives me peace. I am thankful once more that I am single, without Lyra or any child. The worst parts of my subconscious tells me that I’ve failed as an adult, again. I’m homeless, again. I’m unwanted and outsted and fired after hard work, again. I’m mean and I’m working hard not to listen to myself. I am not great at the whole of personing. I would not be as bold as Charlie and claim I’ve been in charge of pretty much everything in my life. It’s probably why I play a Top in kink, so I can pretend to have my shit together.

Still, I’m not just downsides. Emotionally, I’m a healing ninja. I’m creative. I can figure out how to work more things than I knew and I can bond with unexpected people.

Although, there’s a double edge to that sword. When I get close to someone, and then explain my crazy, and then am severed, it sucks. What about when it’s legal, and I’m married into something, into a family-then they get taken away, too? I consider tracing back all the failed father figures I’ve had, and I think of my friends talking me down last week. I was surrounded with good reminders of platonic father-daughter dynamics and praised for bravery. “I love you” does not have to be a threat or a requirement for physical action, even when it comes from a dad. Partners want their families included as relationships get more serious. I wish there was some way to include family without allowing myself to get attached to those people. I still miss Patty and Al. I don’t know what I’d do without Jolene and Jimmy. I was making a friend and building a healthy, platonic relationship. I’m hurt and angry and confused about being hurt and angry. None of these parents are mine. And they never will be.

These are situations that cannot be avoided if I wish to live in the world. Even in monogamy, people change or lie or cheat or quit. Life changes and people do whatever they can to survive their own experiences. I don’t have anyone in my life who wishes malice upon me. I doubt I have anyone who would act against me on purpose. Still, being exposed and vulnerable to people allows harm, despite the best of intentions. It’s my job to make sure I’m safe. And I will.

I wish trauma didn’t have my brain side-fucked into believing it’s unsafe and worthless more often than not. Although, that “good and giving person” bit is a pretty huge step forward. I guess I’ll keep going. lol Besides, I have to see season 7 of GoT and I have great dinner plans Saturday.

The morning after

My facebook feed is full of friends’ fears today. A white, gay friend of mine raged against this having been going on for 18 months already. Another friend of mine, this one a straight, black woman shared the hate speech she and her husband endured hearing in line to vote for their safety. Two girlfriends of mine, who are engaged to one another, are fearful about getting married now. A straight, white, cismale called me last night genuinely afraid of what was happening with the election. Relationships that seem solid are shaking at this political insanity. Women are voting against themselves and racists are gaining power they don’t need. To my personal horror, I am the only non-Trump supporter of those who vote in my family. That’s four aunts, a set of grandparents, my mom and a racist marry-in uncle. I love most of those people, but it does not mean I agree with their beliefs. If I was talking to Steph, I imagine we would not be discussing this election. She shocked me by announcing her Republican inclinations last time Obama won.

Of the women I know who voted for Trump, at least three of them have been raped/molested/violated by men with Trump’s values. It baffles me that survivors would vote a sexual assault advocate into office. Any office, anywhere.

The election is one more area that makes me wonder if I’m in reality. PTSD makes things space easily, and despite meds and grounding allies, I wander in and out of knowing where I am. Surely I can’t be in this world because it’s unreal. Surely I can’t trust my mind because I hear things no one else hears. I see shit that can’t be happening around me I am an unreliable narrator, and I’m aware.

During the bridal battle between my sister and I, she referenced my “fragile state of mind”. That plays in my head every time I forget how old I am, everytime I come to with tears and snot and loving faces near mine, looking concerned and telling me I’m in Colorado. My lack of ability to function within normal societal standards keeps me in a state of questioning my value. Being a person with emotions and feels, not to mention a lunar cycle that blinds me with blood at times, I dwell in illogical whims. I re-read the message telling me that if I don’t pay, I don’t love Steph. I re-read her confusion about letting Aubrey have the letter I wrote her. What does Aubrey think about me? Does she think I didn’t tell her that I’d broken my word to see her? Would my sister let that happen? And then, sharply, the blade of reason slices through my brain sending chills down my back with the realization that it maybe doesn’t matter. Maybe I don’t matter in their lives, if I could so easily be discarded and replaced due to money misspent.

My biological siblings visited me a few days ago. They flew into town for a literal 24 hours, just to see me. I’ve been living away from them since 2004, and while we’ve visited, the trip had never been focused exclusively on seeing me. I had all the good feels from their efforts. Having Steph bail/fire me has made me see the mom-given sister I have for more than I’d previously allowed. Allison has always been someone I both admire and fear. She has strengths I can never comprehend, and then misses obvious facts, like how amazing she is as a person. She was braver than me as a kid, sneaking out with Adriene to drive the car and smoking cigarettes with Steph in the backyard. Her ability to work a normal job, and be a fuckin baller at it, humbles me. She grew up in the same house as me, and I cannot make that shit work to save my life. Granted Allison coped/copes differently than I do, but still. She makes it work, and she looks good doing it. My brother is the same badass that I’ve known his whole life. There’s never enough time to just hang out and banter with that boy. My only regret with Allison and Alex is that the same demons haunt us all. Really, this shouldn’t surprise me. As children, we all had nightmares on the regular. We all slept with night lights, TVS, radios, and each other. We all climbed out of windows and stayed with friends rather than be home. Maybe it shouldn’t be a regret, but it can be an asset. My mom always said to be kind to my siblings because we’re the only ones who will have the same memories when we grow up. I don’t trust most of my memories enough to try and fact check any of that shit. Nonetheless, it’s good to hear Allison say something in passing about our childhoods, and know that my idea was correct. Or good, at least, to know I have company in my memories.

I’m dating four wonderful people, all of whom are poly and currently, ironically, not dating other folks. I am as judicious as possible with my spoons. I am still coming up short more often than I’d like. Beyond my partners, I have great more-than-friends who are struggling. Life is heavy and weighs on the hearts I love. My friends stand strong, fighting their battles with bravery and grace. I am surrounded by people who work hard, hold jobs, love others, and contribute to their communities. I feel less broken in my cave, watching the currents of life around me, knowing that my allies are weaving waves of goodness near me. When I’m able, I can come out and contribute. My friends will love me despite my need to nap frequently. I sit and repeat to myself that all my people are strong, independent folks who can take care of themselves. I remind myself that I am my own job. My physical well-being, my mental health, and my stability are my priorities.

That doesn’t mean I can’t play and work well with others. I have good friends who will talk, share, ask, and help me meet them where we can. I am able to hold relationships. I am able to be productive. I am able to be in ceremonies and not be rejected for my lack of financial standing. I am safe to be around children.

My brother said that Steph was a bad friend to me since high school. A partner of mine keeps calling her a bitch, which only reminds me of how Steph and Eric called Christina a bitch after she cut Steph off. I know that’s happening to me now. Name calling doesn’t help me feel better. Steph isn’t more or less of a bitch than I knew she was before, and neither am I. Allison was quick to defend Steph as having hurt feelings. It’s true, that if Steph and I had been present/able/willing to discuss our feelings, maybe we could’ve fixed it. Maybe we can in the future. Maybe she’ll reach out to me some time. Maybe I’ll reply. Or maybe I’ll just take a nap.

It always surprises me how much the whole Steph thing is in my head.

Snows are due soon, and then winter will lock me into place for a few months. I start painting Niki’s room tonight, and then the guest room. Hopefully, both done before her family visits for Xmas. The basement is almost done. I took a break from the dust due to allergies, which are awful. The deck isn’t done, and while Niki’s dad would place that as a number one, I’ve placed Niki’s room as the top priority. Still, getting the garage and deck done before moving would be ideal. I want to get Niki on an even playing field, not in a ditch.

I brush my hair and throw on a clean shirt that can be splattered with primer. I should eat soon. Yoga and then real movement. Despite the world, I turn and try again.

When Your Partner Has Anxiety: A Meltdown Guide

The Meltdown Guide

What do you do when your partner is having a panic attack or a depressive episode?

It can be really scary and super frustrating watching someone you love go through an episode, especially if you don’t know how to be helpful.

This Meltdown Guide was created to help those of you who are in love with people who struggle with anxiety and depression to feel like you can be helpful when your partner seems to be spiraling.

View original post 1,468 more words

Self-worth and self-trust filtered through betrayal.

A few years ago I was victim to a shitty breakup. It’s taken me a long time to be, more or less, back on my feet. I struggle to consider myself as more than a blight on society. My lack of nine-to-five employment and my lack of automotive ownership make me an easy target, for myself, if no one else. I look lazy, perhaps, to those who don’t know me well. My fear is that I am lazier than I realize. I’m diluted and unreliable.

“Trusting Yourself” was a small chapter in The Courage to Heal when I read it religiously. About three pages, I believe. Now, last I saw, they’d updated and expanded that section. It’s hard to coach someone through trusting themselves because it’s a slow process. Like building trust with a therapist or new partner, it takes time and effort.

My bad breakup left me feeling like I was the least trustworthy person in my life. I’d rolled the dice and lost. It seemed I had poor taste in men after all. I had fucked myself over by betting on love and wild abandon, only to be abandoned. I followed up those feelings by choosing bad roommates and then bad jobs. I got better with partner choices. I also started going much slower with people outside my head.

At the crossroads, I see my choices again before me. No matter the direction, the outcome is of my choosing and therefore, is flawed.

I was replaced in my sister-of-choice’s wedding, according to a picture on social media. In the time it took her to exchange me for a more financially available bridesmaid I was asked to be a photographer at another commitment ceremony. I spent time in therapy discussing my principles concerning marriage and where my values stand in relation to said institution. I have been writing haikus and journal pages about what comes between choosing, engagement, wedding, and marriage. I think the legal status of “wife” would prevent me from being dumped with nothing. I think that making a decision about my long-term adult life based on fear of loss is as smart as having a kid for company through old age.

It was presented to me that one reason to marry is to make a commitment to be together for as long as possible. That sounds obvious. It also sounds cliche and unrealistic.

When James died, about three months ago, I saw his wife survive insane legal nonsense to break even with accounts. If she’d been legally single, she’d have been left without the ability to maintain her life. A life that I know James wanted her to have and enjoy. If I hook my trailer and don’t make it legal, I’m possibly setting myself up for failure.

If I ever were to get married, I fear I’d be a hypocrite for everything I’ve said against marriages. Although, by and large, I think weddings are a way bigger problem than marriages. Although marriage is not an institution I respect, I can see it’s legal benefits. I feel worlds better knowing I can marry either my girl or my boy. (I don’t know how I feel that I’d have to choose, though.) I can also point to a small number of marriages that are happy. Mostly I see divorce, second, third, fourth marriages, and people who just save their money and live together.

The summer before my senior year of high school, Allison and I went to a leadership camp. It was required that we graduate from camp to attend our brother’s graduation from his program later that year. On the first night, we were required to agree to hold all things said in confidence. I refused. I said that I planned to speak freely with my Pastor or my church family about anything I desired. Allison cried, telling me that she didn’t want me to have to leave camp for not making this initial agreement. After discussion with a kind woman whose name I forget, I decided I could consent. I asked her if the other people would believe me, knowing I’d told them all I planned to say whatever I wanted already. She assured me that someone who announces their views so clearly can be trusted when their change their mind.

Standing up to Stephanie was a great thing for me to have done. I’m proud of what I did, however upsetting the results. I have plenty of friends and love from people who don’t require down payments. My allies don’t tell me that if I love them I won’t say no to them. Still, my heart aches without her imagined companionship.

I’d rather have bitter reality, where the tart taste reminds me that I’m a part of the world. It’s a world full of appealing fruit with sour insides and shady trees that won’t filter out sunburns. Nonetheless, until I figure out a working portal gun design, it’s the only world we have. I, for one, plan to stay near the good things and reject the bad, whenever possible.

The Interdimensional Shifts in my Brain

Off to my left, I hear a child singing, “It’s a web like a spider’s web, made with silver lining shadows”. A quavering intake of air. A beat passes. The song continues, “Spun by the moon in my room at night”.


“Brittany!” She cries out like she’s hasn’t seen me in years. It’s been about twenty minutes, in reality. ‘Reality’ being a place we’ve clearly departed. I reply and start to follow the sound of her voice. She’s crying now, washing away all pretense of bravery.

Blindly, I grope forward. I find her hand and hold tight, pulling her into me. She’s shaking. Or I am. Either way.

“I can’t find my signal and so I sing my song but I wanna go home.” Bree’s sentence runs out between sobs and snot is wiped on my shirt through the word “wanna”. I hold her close, rocking slightly, making hushing noises. I look around her curls and try to locate myself. It’s dark. I ask Bree if she can help, and she casts Lumos and buries herself back into my shirt. I can see the shells that line the counter in the bathroom in Ponchatuloua from the glowing ember that sailed across the room. I’m in the bathtub, hiding. I see the half-eroded dalmatian puppy on my soap. I try to keep my breathing steady. I hold Bree closer, making sure she can’t easily see the room we can’t possibly be inhabiting. This room is gone. It was gone before Jim’s death, and it sure as fuck is gone now. I can’t be in this room.

Of course, I shouldn’t be holding a child version of myself, lost in my own head when my thirty-year-old body is probably still being held accountable for my normal functioning in the Outside World. I sigh. Courtney’s gonna be pissed.

In another place and at another time, not so far away, I sort through the drafts of wedding speeches I’ve been writing since March. After an hour of crying, I delete the folder holding them all. I delete the joke folder I made of speeches I couldn’t have given. I read some of them to my sister when she debated calling the whole wedding off because her fiance stole $1,2oo from her and humiliated her in front of her child and in-laws.

Tomorrow night I am going to be social. I will converse with grace, tact, and in a dry-eyed manner than most adults can maintain. I will portray myself as one of many ‘most adults’ and I will pretend I am not fighting my own battle. Although, doubtlessly, everyone I encounter is also fighting their own battle. I pass up potential allies for the sake of proper decorum. Warriors pass me in blouses and ballcaps, seemingly strolling through the city and in actuality, they are engaged in mental warfare. This tall vixen grieves loss so deep that I cannot fathom, and yet smiles and works to share knowledge and kindness with others. That spectacled man has a chronic pain condition and is gritting his teeth behind that grin. The blonde parked in her car on her cell phone is being dumped after months of lies and betrayal. A woman passes the parked car, walking her dog, to avoid her abusive boyfriend at home. I’m not alone, and I’m not in the worst circumstance. If I reach outward, I can find help.

If I go find help, I have an obligation to follow said advice once it has been sought. Bearing in mind that unspoken agreement between folks of integrity, I isolate.

Being poly and in a handful of dynamics, I cannot completely isolate. It’s a horrible gift that I’ve given myself over the last few years. My partners love me through my weak moments. I am useful in unexpected ways. I have skilled advisors questioning my motivates and values, as I need to be questioned in order to draw closer to what I want from life. I am creating my dream life. I’m getting pretty goddamn close, I must say. I go days without flashbacks. Some of those days, I even get to have sex and not forget who my partner is or what year it is. Plus, I’m a coping ninja. I fucking Kill Bill this healing shit. I got lists and everything. A coping ninja is probably slightly more useful than a golf ninja.

I have Dee and Charlie laying down the deafest poetry and I’m gonna be ok. I’m doing better at grounding, and I’m working to resolve the trigger incident. I’m strong in my convictions to maintain the relationships I deserve and to weed out those that harm me. Really, maybe I’ll weed out all of those that don’t serve me. My self-worth can be high enough to require a benefit from my relationships…I get to feel heard, or loved, or supported, or desired, or appreciated, or maybe all of the above in my relationships. If I’m in a relationship with someone who doesn’t appreciate me, takes me for granted, or throws away what we’ve worked to build, so be it. I would tell anyone I love that they deserve equality, understanding, and happiness in the majority of any dynamic they maintain. I can tell myself the same. If I don’t love myself enough to believe it, I’ll practice until I do.

In the meantime, I have the Gang. I’ve got a new violent drama on HBO. I have cool weather right outside my window and love in my home. Love in a few homes, actually. I have abundance where it matters. Those who want to tell me otherwise can kindly fuck off. I don’t have the time for any more of that bullshit.