Curious Things

Readers I Have Questions,

I see my psychologist friday but I wanted your insights. Aside from a lot of dissociating (not severe) and hearing voices when I am stressed out, I want to talk about something that has been going on for a very long time–and it's getting stronger and stronger and happening more often: When I am falling asleep I see people in my room and I can feel that they're there, and sometimes I look for them after I'm awake. When I am waking up I see them and I feel that they're there but oonce I'm totally awake they're gone. Sometimes I wake myself up talking to them. Any ideas? Curious….

An Amazing Poem by Heather Sawaya

So I had the very fortunate luck of coming across a poem“Pull Me Down” by blogger and poet Heather Sawaya over at Heather Sawaya Poetry.  It made me cry. A lot.  And it’s so insightful as to what it’s like for a caregiver/lover/best friend/helper of someone with so much suffering.   She’s an advocate for survivors.  Here’s what she says about “Pull Me Down”:

“The poem, Pull Me Down, means a great deal to me.  It speaks of both my purpose for writing, and also the inspiration for my next book.  I am most moved by people who have gone through the worst life has to offer, yet, find the strength to keep moving toward something better.”

I’ve just started speaking with her on her facebook page and never have I met a more compassionate person.  Visit her page, you’ll see what I mean.  She has given me permission to share Pull Me Down with all of you.  Enjoy.

(all rights to this poem solely belong to Heather Sawaya)

(I apologize if her formatting doesn’t publish correctly)


Pull me down

to that place

you don’t allow words.

I have never been Read More

PTSD thoughts…

…just a thought on labels and healing (perspective)  4-7-10

     It’s a tricky thing—this method of healing.  Because I don’t doubt my courage.  I was, like so many others, forced to be tough.  That stays with us as we grow—blossoming and mutating in ways at the same time.  But hey who says the mutations can’t be beautiful?  Just different.  Different perspectives.  I find myself not even having to muster up the courage because it’s within arm’s reach, as it always had to be.  The problem is how to use it?  These are times I may realize I need to just BE and FEEL.  But again, there are good times, and bad, horrible times.  And moments of pure bliss—small, yet ever more than enough, more than I can wrap my heart around.  I have chronic, severe PTSD and the episodes (flashbacks) and anxiety and dissociation quite consume me at certain times.  I was armed and ready and fighting—and then I realized I wasn’t going to win.  There’s no way.  And I think that’s because I’m not just being—I spend so much energy on the fight when I really need to learn to sit and feel, accept it and just be.  How hard it is for people with PTSD to “just be.”  How do you do it without slipping into dissociation I wonder?  But I’ll keep practicing, I’ll get it.  Rewire those thoughts, eh?  I have to have the courage to fight in a different way.  I need to redefine that word.  I need to use my courage to feel and be, to take a moment and love my thoughts and think outside my head and with my soul—stepping away from the disorder when it’s in full swing and to accept myself and be aware that what is happening is natural and not of me, but from something I would never allow to happen to me.  I will respect myself more when I struggle through the dark thoughts and emotions, and tell myself “this too shall pass.”  I’ve started to face the vacuum of my identity, and I feel it, then I try to build upon it, and create the woman that’s inside of me—after I love her up some.  Self-love has to stop being at the bottom of my list of things to do. 

     I feel it’s important that I say that I don’t (and maybe many of you don’t either, depending on your situation) feel like a victim.  That word is so empty to me.  I come from sexual, emotional, and physical abuse since the age of five, so to me—that was just the way it was.  I had nowhere to go and know way of knowing better except for one thing that kept me connected to by spirit: instinct.  I knew it was wrong and that it hurt and I didn’t like it, and I had the courage to stow away inside of myself to get free, because where else could I go?  I knew somehow that I was worth protecting—even then. I carry that with me.  No victim is not the word for me I feel.  Only “normal” “healthy” people see us as victims.  Victims seems to imply an attack on a mind and body already developed “correctly”, taught right from wrong.  I don’t know what word fits—we feel maybe like we’re selfless (or coreless), unidentified spirits with spirits that swell with such private beauty because we’ve seen the agony.  We’ve been burned, and so, we know.  We know what is dark and lost and hiding.  Imagine this though—we will one day blossom and be so striking—striking to ourselves in particular.  Doesn’t that feeling seem so far away?  How do we know our spirits will blossom?  It’s obvious.  The beauty inside has been hidden from us and we searched for it desperately within our own minds and bodies and souls, and we ventured (and continue to) into the fire, and we came out not innocent—but beautifully AWARE and incredibly okay.  We learn to be okay.  We survive and we fight.  We change our definition of “fight” and do it a different way, without the violence and the dichotomies.  We see ourselves.  We survive and we fight—because we had to train ourselves to do so.  We’re self-taught; we know our souls more intimately than anyone else I dare say.  Our souls shone through all the filth and dirt and tears.  Our souls guide us to purpose, and we keep getting up no matter how many times we fall.  We are an army–the most beautiful army in every sense, fighting through love just for a glimpse of ourselves.  We are not ever victims.  We have always been fighters, we have always been courageous.  Our instincts gave us courage.  And now we have to ease those instincts and love them and feel our way toward ourselves again.  My soul never left me—and that used to be my biggest fear.  My soul is bleeding out the infection.

Amy J Sprague