Dark poetry: The Aqua Door. Based on my nightmare last night

The black door has bolts

Behind it is the red door with levers

And the green door with hinges

And the aqua door with padlocks

I hate the aqua door.

The aqua door I know I cannot get through

I turn back to my room

Inside this place

There are no doors

There are no choices

Human no more

Each shell of a person

Each gender

Each morsel of food

Are

Chosen for you

One bite of this

Enjoy it

You must

Or you’ll be covered in oil

And burned at dusk

Unless you are taken

Strapped to a table

One limb at a time

It won’t matter

If you fight or cry

What happens there I do not know

But the last girl screamed and kicked

All the way to that door

Which was soundproof

As soon as it was closed

There is no will here

Just torture

And roles

Games

Illusions

And one man

Who is control

No one revolts

They are robots

Doing as they are told

They’ve learned

Given up

Given in

To never going home

All religions

All ethnicity

All gender here

It’s a lab

We’re the rats

I stomach that fear

How is there a God

Who allows this violence

He is not above one man’s voice?

He sits on his hands

At the destruction

The inhumanity

This will of choice?

He knows the plans

He knows the path

Yet he cannot interfere?

But do not worry

They’ll tell you

It will all be ok when

You get to heaven here

But I’m there in that place

With God by my side

Watching that march

Watching the power of the pride.

So try to make your mark

If you can

Have your revolutions

And politics

And race

And religion

Wars

Of man

While he watches

And blames

Eve

Or

The fall of man

Or

The Devil

Or

The Sin

Or

Generational curses

Of Uncle Sam

Sip your wine

And drive your waxed car

Paid for by your

Fraudulent taxes

Scoffing as the homeless

“Just left another bar”

When really he has fought

In your fucking war

To stop what you type behind your screen

That you abhor

But you discard

Disregard

Your door is wide open

To the privileges of your lies

So you quote Hippocrates

Or some bullshit philosophy

You tell me of the cross

As you move your hand

Over your heart

With your bless us sign

To a God that watches me

Torn into little parts.

You put your ear buds in

Your blue tooth

Ha ha ha

To your bearing false witness friends

You have no humility

As you boast of your worth

You act as a victim

Oh a terrible crime

If someone has scratched your

Prized possession

With your own

Stolen dime

As I

Cry out

Knowing no one will rescue me

Knowing men like you will just rise

Mentally ill?

Eh

Cast aside.

Disabled?

Eh

They’ll survive.

Meanwhile

I’m locked behind that aqua door

No one chooses to see.

But I’m told

Have solace

That at least

God is with me.

Which I am sure is true

And yes it soothes

This reality

I just ask this

If Rosa Parks

Could do

What SHE did

With her free choice

And her free will

How can you sit

On that house on the hill

Doing nothing of righteous

Just along for the free ride

Pompous

STILL

As those fall around you

The earth crumbles down

You stealing rations

Robbing still now

I’m with the others

Behind the aqua door

You’ve sacrificed me

And you’ll sacrifice more

For science

For the Lord

My life means nothing

In your corrupt

Heartless

World.

A window!

I see a white flowers

In a blue sky

Perhaps there is more

To my existence.

Than meets the eye.

Maybe one day

WE WILL RISE.

Poetry

*photo taken by my daughter

The mirror betrays

Look at that hair out of place

Those wrinkles on an aging face

That body, such a disgrace

The mirror lies

Look at those cellulite thighs

Those boring, common eyes

Put on blush and make those cheek bones high

The mirror is not a true reflection

The mirror is not a true introspection

The mirror is a misguided perception

Where wounds are exposed with no protection

The mirror does not teach

It only misleads

Down a path

Of a self deprecating speech

The mirror cannot see

The real me

Just a distorted

Version

Of imprinted

Realities

*photo taken of me by me

The cow that saw me and my PTSD

My blog title has two purposes. 1. Abuse is not my secret to carry 2. The shame put on me by abusers is not mine to carry either.

I have been brutally honest about the things that have happened to me, that were done to me, the things I did after as a robot going through life mindlessly with PTSD. I have shared the secrets that were put upon me. I have shared the shame that I did carry but that I let go.

I have moved through many areas of recovery from abuse from anorexia to attempted suicide to therapy, then more therapy, then more therapy, medications, hypnosis, etc. A year ago I embarked on a new phase in my recovery which was seeking out joy and beauty to balance the bad memories and flashbacks.

I’ve shared triggers, reactions, coping. I’ve shared my mindfulnesss pictures. I’ve shared my fears, vulnerabilities, abandonment, and more.

Last night something happened.

I experienced a triggering memory that did something.

I encourage and ask anyone who has experienced this to please share in the comments.

As I am currently feeling extremely alone.

I remembered an event.

As I remembered it I heard I high pitched noise in my ears. Then it was like there was a suction in my ears and I went completely deaf. I could see. I could see my daughter. I could see my room. I knew exactly where I was but I could not hear anything. I have no idea how long it lasted. I last looked at the clock at 4am. I still could not hear.

This morning the residue of last night slapped me right in the face. I could hear. I felt the weight of so much though. Almost as if I am in shock. I tried to shake it off. I went to visit the animals on the prairie. I watched the sunset. I played music. I was completely dissociated though.

It was not until I saw a cow. She reminded me of my sweet Jess who passed away a year or so ago of cancer, my dog. Something about this cow’s eyes and the way when I talked to her, she pinned one ear back. I immediately showed my husband when he got home and asked him who she reminded him of. He said Jess.

Jess always made me feel seen.

He alerted me to seizures but was far more than that. He was my constant companion for 14 years NEVER leaving my side.

Seeing this cow look into my eyes made me feel seen. I became present again. I blew her a kiss. I don’t know that I’ve ever blown a cow a kiss but I did.

I came home and the residue slowly seeped over me like this thick tar or sludge smothering me.

I’ve always told THE secrets of abuse. I’ve always talked about the secrets of my life. I want to share this memory.

I can’t.

Not because of shame.

I am just mortified at the additional memory that my body went through. I thought the first time I experienced PTSD or dissociation was much later. This memory took me to a mirror where I was looking at myself. I’ve seen myself looking in this mirror before but never knew why until last night.

I didn’t tell my husband other than that I lost my hearing. He thought perhaps it was my brain that wanted to stop input, protecting me.

It’s just so odd. I have come so far with removing the layers and layers of hands that were on me that I did not want. Layers of men. Layers of abuse. Layers of years and years I have removed. Then one memory has made me feel worthless. Useless. Pointless. Dirty. Disgusting. Unsaveable. Uncleanable. I wish I could cut off my own breasts so that I never knew what it felt like to have them touched again. I wish I could remove all female attributes especially my vagina that has been penetrated so many times unwillingly that I wish it no longer existed. I wish it was not even part of me.

I am logically aware that it would not erase the feeling my body has or the memory that is stored.

This memory though, it makes me think there is really no hope for me.

No hope for true recovery. There was just too much in my life. Too much done.

Here I sit knowing I can never utter these words.

Here I sit in my bed alone wondering if anyone ever went deaf with a high pitch ringing at a memory.

I sit here wondering how I will survive the past that won’t leave me.

While dealing with my fingers painfully typing since this lyme disease flare up.

While dealing with this muscle disease that has had me almost paralyzed for days.

I just don’t know how I can do it.

I still have to get up and fix my daughter food somehow.

I still should check on so and so and so and so as I know they are suffering and need someone.

I sit here feeling like I’ve been raped all over again.

Thinking no one would understand.

Feeling no one understands.

Feeling incredibly alone.

I wish I had that cow…think I will just look at her for awhile…it’s really all I have right now.

Poetry/story

I always thought overture should play at the end

Like an ovation,

Standing!

The applause!

The bows!

While watching the crowd.

Like a petticoat

You’d think

Would be worn

Over the dress.

Coat

Right?

How misleading.

Not underneath.

The names they used

“Get your petticoat Bethany”

As pretentious as they seemed.

But

The layers

I’d retrieve

One

Two

Three

I loved the pinafore

On top

Pressed

And taken from the cedar

Chest

Packed

With the quilt my great grandmother made

The smell

30 years

Has always stayed

Still in my closet it remains

With a kerchief on my head

And make up on my young face

I beat on the drum

Unnoticed

Backstage

Before the overture played

The men wore painted lips

And long white wigs

I watched them

And the women they kissed

Not that of my mother

She was not being missed

As she donned her costume

Pin curling her wisps.

The songs I’d memorized

Everyone’s part

Ugh

Come on people

It’s an F sharp

The lead

The understudy

Practicing in the hall

I mouthed silently the words

As I blended with the wall

So full of themselves

So absorbed

In this world of pretend

Avoiding

The real world

These pathetic men

I peeked through the curtain

Nana would be there

As the lights flickered

On and off

The show about to begin

I saw her

And that Nana grin.

Encore

They stood

The show a success

I would go home

Pack up that year’s dress

In the cedar chest

Fairies, I was told

The production next.

And so went the years

From age 5 and on

Such a privilege

To be raised

On Gilbert and Sullivan

Song

They did it for me

Please

Could they be more wrong

I only did it to please Nana

And to play along

But the lessons

The variety

So well rounded I’d be

I can still sing you

Some phrases in Japanese!

The engineer

Paying for the perfect upbringing

Showing off his

Perfect

Family

The tunes of the past

Rumbling through my mind

As we are driving

When

I saw a woman

Sitting on her porch swing

Sitting across from an all African American

Cemetery.

Something I’d not known of

Or seen.

My neck craned

To try and see her face

Did she have my Nana’s grin

Did she have a cedar chest

And what lie within

I faced the front and threw myself

Back

Against the seat of my car

I’d never been to this part of town

Down this little road

With the government

Owned homes

The fences all broke

The porches were fallen

I’d been ignorant

Of such poverty

I myself had lived in my car

But more privileged

Far more

Than this scene.

And a sadness swept over me

Such segregation

And trapped in

Inequality

Did the woman on the swing

have a granddaughter like me?

I sat with this gut wrenching

Overpowering

Feeling

A questioning

Of how one little girl

Can break free.

I was raised with costumes

And overtures

But I was not born free

I was trapped in abuse

That was a white collar family

I escaped it

Eventually.

With an illness

And not one penny.

But here

This woman on the swing

Could she have been long ago

A child like me

Was she unable to ever

Leave

Is this where she wanted to be

These questions

Now haunt me

On how one escapes

A life you’re born into

Surrounded by rape

I wanted to sit with her

And hold her hand

Tell her about

The stupid petticoats

And the cedar chest

I liked to smell

Talk about how we saw heaven

And how we perceived hell.

I wanted to stop

And just swing

Holding her hand

We were different

But the same

Dominated

By

The evils

Of man

Living:part 1

When we moved into this house my mother’s second husband who she is nolonger married to, gave me a camellia.

After 14 years of waiting, it bloomed.

I was very excited. Took pictures in the middle of the night, the next morning, and every day since. I put it on my facebook which I reactivated JUST to show that picture and tag him in it. I never got a response.

I then wondered why. I checked out my family’s accounts which I am blocked on but a few things are available like my brother’s dirt bikes which were stolen. That facebook post was shared over 200 times. My father and my mother’s second husband both wrote their sympathy comments. There were tons of other comments in reference to our lake I grew up on. How sad it was for Lily lake. I felt immediate rage.

For 40 years I felt numb. I did not allow myself to feel. Then the dam burst and I allowed myself to feel everything I had denied myself because others had denied me. I put a time limit on my emotions though. 3 days. I could feel rage for 3 days. That rage turned to anger. I could feel that anger for 3 days. Then it was time to move past it, process it, or put it back in the box to be sorted later. I didn’t want to live in a state of anger and rage. But I also did not want to stop myself from feeling.

I have altered that plan as I have moved forward through this healing process of abuse. I’ve tried to let that anger stay for only 3 hours and not 3 days. 3 hours I let myself feel. I am aware, so aware of my feelings now. I know my own limitations, my own boundaries, my own personal space needs, my own self love needs, my need for companionship, and my need for isolation.

I was busy being very angry late last night that not only was my 14 year wait for my camellia to bloom not acknowledged, that I didn’t realize I had gone way past my 3 hour mark. I have honestly no idea if her ex husband got the picture but that isn’t the point. The point is, I was led to a string of conversations over that stupid lake and how sad it was for dirtbikes when no one seemed ever to be even validating of what happened to me. Like a dog who has been barking incessantly for hours and finally someone says STOP., My brain was barking wildly. Then a very sweet girl I had never met interrupted my own mind of anger. She had watched my muscle disease videos on youtube and had reached out to me on facebook to thank me. We chatted for awhile. This one girl gave me such a gift. She put everything in perspective.

For so many years I wanted to be heard. I wanted validation. I wanted to be loved unconditionally and to feel that love. I wanted others to make right what they had allowed to be wronged. I wanted from others something they were incapable of. The focus was on them. I was focused on what they did not give me and never would. As time passed I realized that if being molested or raped didn’t matter, then having a muscle disease didn’t matter, then having a sick child didn’t matter, well, I didn’t matter. JUST to them. But they really should not matter to me anymore. They never understood my heart. They never understood the depths of my heart to feel love and loss. They never will. So ofcourse it won’t mean the same to any of them that I waited for my camellia to bloom for 14 years. What matters to them is not what matters to me. To them it is sad that dirt bikes got stollen from Lily lake. So sad. Yet a child got molested there. A child tried to kill herself there. That child got nothing and still gets nothing. Less than nothing actually from any of them.

Things shifted for me last night. When that sweet girl sent me the message about what my videos meant to her. I thought about how much I seek validation and to be heard and to be loved by those incapable. I am not saying I am better than those people. I am just nothing like those people and never will be. They are nothing like me and will not be. I shifted my focus on being heard and validated by them, back to me.

I have to validate myself. I have to love myself. I have to know myself. I have to accept myself. I have to enlighten myself. I have to move forward towards self love. There are people in the world that DO hear me and love me and appreciate the depths of my soul and I cherish those people. Those who leave understanding comments on my blog, who leave owl gifts on my front door step and who deliver packages in the mail of something that I think no one even knew I would cherish but I do. The weight has shifted. I no longer need to be validated. I no longer need to be accepted. I know myself. I recognize me. I see that I am special in the way that I am and I love that I feel so intensely. I love that I connect to nature, to animals. I love that I care about those suffering and want to help them. I love my heart and soul. I don’t need outside validation anymore. I just don’t need them to know me, see me, validate me, because they never will and I now have moved beyond that need.

So when I go out with this muscle disease and all the other parts of illness that I have, I go out for me. I go out in search of life, of joy. I take photographs of the moments that mean something to me. They are not perfect. To me though, they are. I look at the red leaf, the pink sky, the bark on the tree that I felt for my friend that was blind, just so I knew what she would feel with my eyes closed.

I’ve chosen life. I’ve chosen to move beyond . I’ve chosen to rise above the drama, the lies, the denial, the evil of this earth, and not let it drag me down with it. They have made their choices.

I decided a long time ago that when I died, I wanted to be able to tell God that I really LIVED. I saw the sunsets, I saw and felt the flowers, the grass between my toes. That I heard the waves of the beach and the sound the wind made in bamboo and that I smelled the honeysuckle. I would tell Him that I got in my wheelchair and I went on adventures. That I beat the odds and drove again. That I even ran one last time just for Him and for me! I wanted to be able to tell him that I loved unconditionally. That I saw the deer and looked her in the eye and felt, truly felt. That I did not give up because of my past or my limitations. I wanted to tell God that I didn’t let mankind, childabuse, or disease, stop me from living.

So, I woke up today and my husband and I went on an adventure. It was an adventure of a lifetime. Nothing else mattered but each leaf and how the sun shone on it. Each thing I looked at was all that mattered. I even ate my lunch savoring every bite and not wasting one bite. I could easily have let my past and this disease eat up my will. I know my body is deteriorating. But when it finally goes. I want to say I chose to live until It did. Now I feel like I can finally say that.

I started living for God and for me.

Poetry: ENOUGH

*photo taken by my daughter

SLAP

You’re not good enough!

SMACK

You’re not enough!

Kicked down,

While being told,

GET UP!

That’s not the correct shirt.

That’s not the proper word.

That’s good, wear that skirt

Just don’t zip it all the way up.

Society

Has it’s own reality

None of which applies to me.

I know the rules

Of which I follow

But the criminals

They didn’t when

The passed me

And borrowed.

Leaving this…

Hollow.

Pardon me

While I build myself

From the ground up

With a broken body

Which you thought was so weak.

But it’s got a deep tough

That makes me

More

Than

Enough.

When one man tries to seal your fate

I have been looking through all of my medical records and scanning in important documents that may be used for the case studies that I have been in for the muscle disease I was diagnosed with. I have a medical record burning ceremony scheduled but before that I knew there were important documents that could be important for future genetic studies of the Doctors that have been putting together different studies on the length of my disease and date of onset.

I found my baby book which had a few documents that I scanned in the computer and sent to the Doctor’s out of the country working on my case.

It appears my first symptoms began when I was 9 years old. One year after I joined the ski team. As I read through the symptoms that I had when I was 9 I cannot help but see the resemblance to my symptoms now. The “purple streaks” mentioned are the “aura” that I get before a seizure although my medical notes state there is NO AURA. Even though it states patient sees “purple streaks.” The widespread pain I felt at that time is exactly what I feel now even though it is painfully, and I mean, painfully clear that this doctor believes none of my symptoms were real. He said so “psychosomatic.” He even states that I need to lay down when the pain is so bad but then says no fatiguability. How odd being that the reason I was there was that I was too weak to sit up and in so much pain I could barely walk.

Then my symptoms continued into the next year with urinary incontinence, which I also currently have experienced with the acceleration of the muscle disease and the seizures. I was seen by a urologist. Apparently, that urologist had seen me before and this little piece of evidence explained my patchy memory of a vaginal procedure done that my mother claimed to “not remember” although it is crossed out for my own privacy here in my medical notes.

Reading my childhood records has been triggering, upsetting, beyond upsetting. To see that so much had been done medically in my vaginal area before the age of 11. The wonderful age of 11 when it was decided that I would get coached by the ski coach child molester. It is as if I never had a chance.

What stands out to me most, even further than the neurologist telling my parents to not allow me to go to the clinic, AND to resume all physical activity is that in one fail swoop he destroyed my body. In his letter, telling my parents that I was not only faking everything, but to not allow me to rest, and to push me into sports, HE RUINED MY LIFE. Had he listened, believed, validated, anything then I would not have ever waterskied. I would not have damaged fragile muscle tissue that cannot repair itself, I would have never been in the sights of a child molester either. Because he did not believe my symptoms were real he sent me to destroy my body and allow someone else to destroy my body and mind as well.

I read all of my records. It was the laziest evaluation I have ever seen for someone with my symptoms. Had he done a biopsy like was done 30 years later, he would have known I had a muscle disease. I would have not been allowed to do sports which did irreversible damage. I had to wait for so many months to even get some of these tests done that some answers would have already passed!

It is still in question whether I have post polio. That is on the table now along WITH the muscle disease with unknown mutation and Lyme disease and my slew of other health issues.

And for anyone wondering, and yes I have been asked… being molested cannot manifest itself as a muscle disease in a muscle biopsy. You cannot fake a muscle disease, create a muscle disease finding on a biopsy, and psychosomatic or rape or molestation cannot give a person a muscle disease. The lack of this finding falls on the inadequate incompetent doctor who did not do his job and would rather say it was all in my head than believe me.

It kills me to see that. To read that. To see that he chose, encouraged, pushed, my family and my pediatrician to make me do sports even though I was there in so much pain.

One man. One man that I feel almost sealed my fate. I mean. He did in some ways. My muscles are wasting as are my bones and if the Doctors in England and Canada cannot find the cause and genetic mutation then there really is no saving me. Others with this disease do not do any of the activities that I did. They know it damages muscles that cannot repair. This ALL could have been prevented to the severe extent it has become had ANYONE believed me in my physical pain or the abuse that was going on.

Then I read my own letter to my grandfather and grandmother when I was miraculously better which my parents equated to church prayer. All I remember is one day I woke up and felt fine. No one knows why I went into remission and my disease came back 30 years later. The Mayo Clinic surmises it was anesthesia that triggered the relapse. And they have no idea what caused the initial remission. Who knows. But I was well when I was 10 even though apparently I had urinary incontinence, I went on to be in a commercial and continue back waterskiing and doing dance. I read my own handwriting at climbing to the top of the pyramid at 10 years old and skiing with my brother. I read it and thought, “ Had that one Doctor diagnosed me properly, or even suggested that it was not all in my head, I would not have been climbing pyramids, I would not have also been getting molested…if only…”

I scanned my documents. Sent them where they needed to go. I will burn the rest. I remember getting these documents in the mail many years ago and calling that original doctor on the phone and faxing him his diagnosis of psychosomatic and then faxing him my muscle biopsy results front he Mayo clinic saying I had a muscle disease. I spoke to him. He is still practicing medicine. Maybe after my phone call he will stop “practicing” and start actually DIAGNOSING.

One man’s words took away my worth, my childhood, and at 45 years old, still, my body.

After reading through the records I hand typed out what they said for my blog since some of my friends are blind and cannot read screen shots. As I wrote his words I started thinking about how one man really can try to seal your fate. One child molester. One bad doctor. One invalidating remark. A group, a family, a town, that does not believe you were sick or molested. Then I looked at these records along with the ones I have recently and realized how wrong they all were and how absolutely devastating that is. I knew they were wrong. But no one believed me. No doctor. No family. No one.

Until now. A righteous man stepped into my life, my husband, who validated MY LIFE. I wrote a poem about him, a quote really, “An evil man cannot seal your fate if a righteous man steps in his place.” I believe that.

Many an evil I have encountered but a righteous man took me away from that as best he could and has given me…butterflies, beaches, a daughter, sunsets, love, unconditional love and constant validation.

Don’t let one evil man seal your fate. (Or human). A good man or woman, God, nature, beauty, self love, dreams, aspirations, hope, can give you the fate you deserve.

Dated 12/22/81.

I was 9 years old. “The areas of pain complained of were each explored closely, and none of these show any physical abnormalities nor evidence of tenderness. She does complain about pain upon palpating of many areas but I am not convinced that real tenderness exists.” This goes on to further state:

“We discussed with the mother today that there is some possibility that Bethany has developed a school phobia or a similar psychodynamic problem. The mother is not very accepting of this viewpoint but will try to normalize this child’s life. Specifically, we suggested that the child should attend school daily, should participate in sports and normal activities for her age and should not be allowed to go to the school clinic or in another way dysfunctional in school or at home. The mother is to observe the child for any objective evidence of illness and to call us back in two weeks with a report of progress in school. We certainly hope that you will be able to support our efforts for this child and her family. Sincerely, F. Thomas Weber M.D. “

Other hand written notes state initial thoughts “ ?neurologic disease – but so many variable complaints. I.e. M.S. ?psychosomatic” then you can see where he goes back and writes next to that “ a real probability”

The hand written notes of my exam state this “ ‘purple lightening flashes’ in both eyes. Pain at times in the chest, abdomen, thighs, arms, calves — essentially everywhere…..when pains are severe, pt feels very weak and must lay down. Has missed 10 days of school because of illness- or more. No auras…..no easy fatiguability.”

Next record is 4/13/83 and apparently I started being seen when I was 10 years old but had turned 11 on this second visit that is to see a urologist and reads to my pediatrician:

“Dear George: I saw Bethany in my clinic on 4/13/83. This 10 year old white female has a problem with incontinence that has going on for several months. …I have seen this youngster in the past….I examined her perineum today and could not see any obvious abnormalities….my tentative plan is to go ahead and proceed with an IVP in three weeks on May 4,1983 to look for an ectopic ureter. After that we will consider cystoscopy.

Dated June 4, 1983

Dear Grandather and grandmother,

I can’t wait for school to be over. I have so many things to tell you. First, I think you already know I’ve been in a McDonald’s commercial. I’m so excited to see myself on T.V. I’m on a ki group too. This is my 2nd year and I was on top of a pyramid and now I am doing a ballet with Andy by my side (on two skis). I know know how to ski on one ski with the rope between my legs. The third thing I wanted to tell you is that I just did a dance recital.”

Because no one can take away the beauty, especially a child molester and an inadequate doctor from 30 years ago…I move forward and will not give up…

Here is me at my faking age…

But I’ve moved forward …

No one can take the blue butterfly…

I have chosen LIFE