Trigger Warning & Discussion Guidelines


kitten 1I am devoted to this blog being about healing, not abuse porn. That said, sometimes to talk about healing I will have to talk about hurting. Please consider this sticky post a trigger warning for every entry for childhood abuse of all kinds. If you are having a difficult day, this blog will still be here tomorrow! Consider looking at this picture of a kitten, instead, for now. Be kind and compassionate to yourself.

Also, be kind and compassionate to ME. If you want to stroll by and attack me when I fuck up (which I’ve done, and I write about it) or because you don’t like queers or what-have-you, or if you want to fight about the psychiatric profession or EMDR or anything else, please know that I screen all comments and I just won’t let them through. This place is not a debate page. It’s a personal blog, and I’m blogging for connection and support.


Do other people get paranoid and filled with self-loathing with fevers? Or just special people like me?

I suppose it’s because I was medically neglected, but mainly I think it’s because I believe that I am only worth anything due to my work rather than due to my essential self, and I can’t work right now, so I’m worthless.

Yeah, that’s it.

PS this is exactly what I look like right now:


So at least I can fall back on my Nordic good looks for a sense of self worth, yeah?

Someone explain to me how autistic kids have no empathy, again?

ME: How did you kids like Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters?

KIDS: It was awesome! It wasn’t as scary as you said, though. The witches were so cool and scary but not TOO scary.hanselandgretel-4a

ME: What about the witch who attacked Hansel and Gretel as children after they knock on the door? [I refrain from mentioning that this scene caused me to have a huge embarrassing flashback in the movie theater.]

AUTISTIC KID WITH NO EMPATHY: That was the scariest one! But I’ll bet she was scarier to you than to me.

ME: Why?

AKWNE: Because you were an abused child, and I’m not.

[stunned silence on my part while I absorb the fact that he understands how our pasts color how we view everything and while I absorb the fact that he sees us as having very different childhoods]

ME: What? But I’ve hit you!

AKWNE: [scornful noise] A few abusive moments over a whole childhood does not make you an abusive parent. Sheesh.

ME: [nods thoughtfully; escapes the room as quickly as I can so I don’t ask him to repeat that seventeen times because it is not his job to reassure me]

Blogging about rough stuff

used-gray-ultra-fine-sandpaperI’ve written and re-written this post, trying to figure out how to word it.

This is the best I can come up with: I am still going through a horrible time. If you have come to hate me through reading this blog (which is understandable, especially as I acknowledge hitting my child), could you just stop reading my blog and wander off instead of sending me hate mail?

Because I’m going to keep writing my truth, and I’m going to write it the way it really happens. Maybe everyone I know who was abused as a kid has never yelled at their own kid or hit them, or maybe they just don’t talk about it. But either way — even though I am very ashamed of it — I have hit my child. And I hope I never will again, but if I do, I will write honestly about it. This is part of how I am healing and trying to become a better person and parent. Speaking up about it. Asking people to read and support me.

I’m not going to pack up this blog and go home. I’m not going to sugar-coat anything or try to make myself look better. I am going to write about my struggles. They might be ugly, they might be off-putting, but they are mine to do with what I will — and I am not going anywhere.



  1. I wish I were the person I appear to be in interviews. I just answered a written one and I was like: damn. I should be HER. That would be fun.
  2. I appreciate my past because I think it makes me deep, and then I wonder: do I think friends who had happy childhoods are shallow? NO. I guess I will appreciate my past because it is MINE.
  3. I wish I were less intense.


  1. I’m just tired and confused.
  2. I wish I’d be FIXED already.


There was no levity in this post. None at all. And when I googled 'poison,' these guys came up, and they are so pretty and they made me smile.

There was no levity in this post. None at all. And when I googled ‘poison,’ this came up. They made me smile, so here you are.  Lookit the silly pretty that is in this world with us, you guys.

My shrink says I struggle hard at the same time every year: now.

I have no idea why. It makes no sense. There is no anniversary in April that I know of. The sun is coming back in this cold place I live. It is warming up. There are some regular events coming up this month and next that I look forward to all year. I have no idea what pushed me into this deep, dark place.

I am so annoyed with myself.

It’s stupid, but I am. I should be done with this shit. I am working on myself. It’s so funny — I’ve never really felt betrayed by my body due to my physical disability (I do get a bit maudlin during fatigue flareups but I still feel like this is something being DONE to me, my body included), but I feel betrayed by my brain for falling into this hole of depression.

I feel like I’ve let myself down, which is utter and pure bullshit that I do not believe any less just because it is crap.

So instead, I’m trying to think of my life in the framework of a poisoning.

I steeped in poison for the first twenty years of my life. I had another twenty of sporadic but painful exposure to it, and my mother has not been the only source of it, either. Other poisons in the form of sexism, ableism, poverty, grief, stress — and  rejection, disownment, and indifference from those I love — have interacted with the original poison.

I am flushing it out with EMDR, and talk therapy, and mindfulness and blah blah fickity blah, but when you flush out poison it makes you feel even MORE sick for a while, in new places.

AW, fuck this metaphor is weak. I’m keeping it; I like the photo too much.

Sex (or NOT sex)

xena-xena-and-gabrielle-6633071-1194-952Yesterday, instead of working on the pre-verbal stuff, my shrink and I sat down and talked about sex.

Such a cliché!

I’m very frustrated with myself lately in this arena for reasons that have to do with intimacy, and my avoidance of it, and I needed to talk it through.

I am so impatient with myself. I acknowledge that I am still very much affected by my PTSD, but whenever I see it manifesting itself in my day-to-day life I am annoyed with myself for not being over it, already. I intellectually know that it doesn’t work like that, and that I’ve already come a long way. But I still believe in my gut that I should be able to think and talk my way through it when what I really need is something far deeper (and this is why I’m getting EMDR in the first place).

She said something that surprised me and made me sad and happy all at once: “You’ve been hardwired for mistrust since you were born. I think that’s why you became so upset by the information about brain development. And you want to trust SO MUCH.”

I felt a few things, all at once, and not necessarily in this order:

  1. How pathetic, to want to trust.
  2. Good for me! I want to trust! How pathetic that I used to think that was pathetic!
  3. How sad that I want to do something I can’t do.
  4. Will I ever be able to?
  5. Why can’t I just DO it already?

The thing is, I am an extrovert who desperately needs connection with others to feel sane and to feel like myself. And yet I sabotage this connection with sex and romantic partners, pretty much at every turn. Not only by alienating existing partners, but by deftly avoiding sex with new people in my life whom I REALLY would like to fuck– through circumstances, by making sure I get so damn tired by the end of a date I have to go home instead, or by generally making myself unavailable.

I know that it will bond us closer, the sex. That’s why I have sex. And a part of me is running screaming from that idea — especially since the new people in my life are ridiculously hot and absurdly interesting. They have POTENTIAL, you see.

And if she’s telling me I was hardwired for this in infancy . . . well, it’s going to take a long goddamned time to rewire all this shit. A long time. And contemplating that makes me tired.


wheel_love. . . of my physical disability, not my mental one!

Yay for diversity?

Trying hard to feel the fuck out of my feelings on this, since it’s been a long time since I was hit so hard. At least I have my beautiful wheelchair with me. I love her. She is always there when I need her.

And on a more serious note, as soon as I started exhibiting neurological issues I immediately began to advocate for the best-quality wheelchair I could. Everyone thought I was jumping the gun, but I knew what I needed and I stubbornly stuck to my guns, refusing to give in to the voice that said: “You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” or “Why do YOU deserve the best?”

The answer: everyone deserves the best mobility equipment that is available. I was lucky enough to have insurance at the time that would cover it. And I was smart enough and cared enough about myself to go for it.

So the wheelchair that so many people think is a symbol of my failure is actually the symbol of my self-care. I love it.