“Diagnosis”

I wasn’t going to post today, but this just landed in my inbox (yes, he’s still blocked):

I was diagnosed with PSTD on Monday, also chronic depression. The counselor, who is an expert in both, says I’ve been affected this way since my first accident. The official psychiatric diagnostic manual requires about five indicators from a list of about fifteen. I pegged the chart, with all fifteen. Good news is, this fine woman tells me she has cured every case of PSTD she has had, which includes five years of treating soldiers on a base in Southern California. A cure means a 100% healthy emotional life. Hard to imagine.

Today I went to the Lincoln county mental health clinic to see what they have to offer. They are much closer than the other option, which is an hour away, in north Lincoln City.

Some nice people here. And I think visits to them might be covered by my insurance. I’m not one to change in mid-stream, but we’ll see. I talked with a counselor for an hour and every few minutes, she’d politely interrupt to say “that’s another symptom of PTSD”.

The psychologist I visited today has a note on her white board that says “be grateful to everyone”. I am grateful to you, for kicking my ass so hard I finally did something.

Hope all is well for you. Give Sabu some love from me, please. 

Ain’t that sweet? 11.5 years of torturing me has led him to this epiphany today. He’s grateful. He has an official diagnosis.

Big fucking deal. I told him all of this years ago, but my opinion isn’t worth the paper he uses to wipe his ass, even though I was living with the fallout and begging him to do something about it.

Is this supposed to be an excuse? An apology? An open door to reconciliation? WTF? Am I supposed to feel guilty for leaving now? Should I now view leaving as a great humanitarian act instead of the flight for my life that it was? “100% healthy emotional life?” Should I go running back for that? Again, WTF?

I can’t tell you how pissed off this poisoned missive makes me. No diagnosis in the world excuses the way he treated me FOR YEARS! He doesn’t get to nod and say, “well, I suffer from PTSD and depression and that’s why I was such a dick to her. She should have stayed and helped me…” Oh, hell no!

Fuck you, narc. Fuck your “diagnosis.” Fuck your finally taking my advice and getting insurance and treatment. Fuck you for thinking you could interrupt my Fabulous with your narc bullshit.

Just. Fuck you.

 

A messy desk…

means what? I can’t recall, but it’s good, right? Last night was a busy evening, catching up on all the Cleaning Chores that were neglected while the Soap Marathon 2013 was in full swing (did manage to get the laundry done, though) and it was clear that the desk needed some prompt attention:

No apologies. It was a disaster. I was just too tired to get to it over the weekend. There was some moisture in the cupboards above the desk, so a few things were pulled out and set atop the growing pile while the cupboards dried out. There was a cat in the picture seconds before this shot, but I missed him.

Here it is, ready for NaNo:

I even dusted! I need to find some sort of fancy boxes with lids to hold all the small stuff because that darned cat thinks anything that’s not nailed down is a toy. God only knows what he’s stashed behind the couch!

The more I use this desk, the less I like it. What I really want to do is build another, much like the desk the narc built for me years ago that I left behind (it would not have fit through the door) out of old hollow core doors. Very light weight, but very strong, and pretty, too. It’s on the Project List…

 

But is it art?

Clicky-clicky. You know you want to…

Lookie there – a picture! Don’t say I never give you anything.

So, yeah, I’ve been away for awhile. I find myself pissed off pretty much constantly about the state of the world today. I really should quit perusing the ‘net and catching glimpses of the news here and there. And I especially should not be looking at posts over on A Voice For Men. Whew! Shit like that is exactly why women think they need anti-rape clothing like the subject of today’s re-blog. I want to reply to some of their bullshit, but I have bigger fish to fry this month.

NaNoWriMo officially starts on Friday and I am as ready as I ever am, which is to say that the book is outlined in my head (anger helps keep the story in order and my energy level up) and I’m ready to start entering stuff into the trial copy of Scrivener I downloaded onto a thumb drive (for portability, dontcha know. What? You thought I wasn’t gonna write at work? Are you new here?) This particular trial is good through the beginning of December (a NaNo special) if you want to give it a try even if you’re not NaNoing this year. Yes, it is a word, I just said so.

Anyway. Getting off track. My novel is titled “The Lies He Told” and will be a “fictionalized autobiography” of my relationship with the narc, and possibly some lead-in crap about ex#1 and ex#2 depending on word count. There’s so much more than what I’ve shared here and I hope to be able to show a clear progression through the phases of a relationship with a narc, both to educate others and to finally lay my own demons to rest.

I say “fictionalized” because I’ll be writing in the third person to keep the story moving forward and to avoid having to type shift-i all the time. No one needs to see that for 50,000 words. Unless the writer is famous or really, really interesting, and I am neither. “Fictionalized” also because conversations will be recounted to the best of my memory (unless I have recordings and can bring myself to listen to them again) and to avoid any potential lawsuits.

Here’s the cover –

Cool, yes? I know, getting the cart before the horse, but that’s how I roll. I’ll tell y’all the story of the cover and the new logos in development that came about after reading a thread on Reddit another day. I gotta go plot some shit for The Boss.

Happy Monday!

 

High Tech Panties Won’t Stop Rape

Srsly? There are idiots out there in this day and age who don’t understand that rape is not about sex but about power? Do they not understand that a man is going to rape a woman because he feels entitled to rape her and clothes DO NOT matter? Are there women who will buy this crap because it somehow makes them “safe?” WTF is up with people?

Go visit The Belle Jar for a much more coherent rant about this new line of undergarments. I just have no words. Well, three words – Hell In Handbasket.

The Belle Jar

There is currently an Indiegogo campaign created by AR Wear for a line that they call Anti-Rape Clothing. These garments, which include a pair of boy-cut brief-style panties, running shorts, leggings and “travelling shorts,” are allegedly designed and built to be unremovable except by the owner, who has some sort of key to release the locking mechanism on the waistband. Basically they act as a chastity belt, although of course we are not supposed to think of them as chastity belts. AR Wear wants us to believe that this is some sort of modern innovation, and not just a contemporary twist on an outdated garment meant to oppress and subjugate women. In fact, AR Wear wants us to believe that the opposite is true – that their anti-rape wear will actually empower women and offer them some sort of freedom that they might have been lacking.

Let’s get a few…

View original post 783 more words

 

The Remote, The Thermostat, and The Middle of the Bed

Can’t help but reblog this one, too. What could be better than being in control for the first time in my adult life? I’m not even considering sharing any of my Fantastic with another!

 

Visiting

Twindaddy, author of the very first UnShitty™ blog on the internet, has granted me a guest post spot today. Hop on over there and see what I’m bitching about on this Friday and stay to read some really UnShitty™ Stuph!

 

Whirlwind

There’s a lot going on around here and my mind feels like a tornado every waking moment, which unfortunately is the majority of the time as Lil’ Shithead has been moving up Wake Up time for the past week. It was three days of up at 0530, followed by one day at 0500 and this AM he decided that he needed to get me up at 0230. Yup. That’s 2:30 AM!!! WTF he was thinking, I just don’t know.

I’ve decided that he’s just not a cat at all; he’s a yappy, spoiled dog in a cat suit. He cries like a little dog; he insists that he will do what he wants like a little dog; he wants to go OUT at all hours of the night, nevermind that he’s never been out; he constantly re-arranges everything on every flat surface. Gaaaahhhhhh!!!

Now, I have had kittens before. Quite a few, in fact, but I have never had one be quite so difficult and active. If he sleeps, it’s only because his batteries are suddenly depleted and he just falls over and passes out for an hour or so. Then he’s right back up and raging for hours.

That’s not what I intended to blog about, but he’s inciting the dog to riot at this very moment and I’m getting ready to put him in his crate out on the patio to see how he likes that! If he wakes me up again in the wee hours, you can bet he’ll be getting his wish of being outside!

I got the word at knitting last night that the knit shop owner’s offer was accepted on the 1910 Craftsman house down the street and she will be moving shop. The really fabulous news is that there are four rooms upstairs that she will be renting out as studio space and I managed to procure one for myself!

This means that I will finally have a Room of My Own where I can set up my sewing machines and cutting table and work on the projects that have been on hold for years! I will be able to start the projects that have been percolating in my brain without anyone criticizing my materials, color choices, sloppiness, speed or anything else! I will finally be able to open the totes and air out the smell of the narc’s house from my fabric stash.

I can’t tell you how happy this makes me! The rooms have great lighting (they were used for offices so they have nice, bright lighting) and each room has one or two windows and a walk-in closet. The basement will be used for washing fleece and dyeing and having classes while the main floor will house the yarn shop proper.

Sigh. It’s all coming together. Now I better get moving on updating my patterns and website. And do some laundry…

Anyone participating in NaNoWriMo this year?

 

“Just let me take off my shirt…”

I had a Larry Incident yesterday afternoon and the images are still seared on my retinas so I thought I’d share. I wrote a little about Larry on this post and have since found out much more, both from him and from others in the trailerhood.

Larry is an alcoholic, which explains his sometimes lucid, sometimes bizarre behavior. He says:

• he’s off the sauce now
• he doesn’t sleep for three or four days in a row and then sleeps for 12 hours or more
• he is looking at houses in the neighborhood to buy (complete with details about how he would arrange his antique furniture, how much they want for it, how far he’ll talk them down on price, etc., etc., ad infinitum
• he has lots of money
• Lois* is a wonderful woman, but…
• his wife could practically walk on water (she died 3,4,8 years ago – it changes from story to story)
• he has a storage unit full of Great Stuff that he wants to show me so that I can buy some of it (he tells this to every new resident, but said storage unit visit can never be scheduled)

The other residents in the park say only one thing: don’t believe a word out of Larry’s mouth. I’m inclined to believe the majority.

Anyway. I was sitting on the patio yesterday afternoon, minding my own business, not bothering anybody when Larry spied me and ambled over. Sigh. Too late to dart inside. I was stuck and just hoping he would leave after only a very short “visit.”

It was warm and sunny, so I had my shoes and socks off and he spied the tattoo on my right ankle.

“A tattoo?” he said, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah…evidence of my mis-spent youth,” I replied.

“You should see mine!” he exclaimed. “Here, hold Leo’s leash while I take off my shirt.”

Oh, crap! Really?

He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, slipped it off to reveal a yellowing t-shirt with a frayed neckline and pushed one sleeve up to reveal a USMC logo, “Vietnam” and a bare-breasted woman from the waist up.

“Look at that! We were all a little crazy in the service!”

He then pushed up the other sleeve to reveal yet another bare-breasted woman, this one with even more detail and color. He was grinning like I should be impressed seeing his flabby old arms tatted up with titties.

“Well…Um…Those are certainly large tattoos…” was all I could say.

He nattered on for a bit as he put his shirt back on, but I was so traumatized that all I heard was a roaring in my ears. When I mastered my gag reflex I murmered some vague “gotta get going…” sounds and he and Leo left.

Wow. Just wow. On what planet is it appropriate to show a woman you don’t really know (a virtual stranger) tattoos of naked women on your person? Does anyone else think that’s strange? Was he expecting me to get a thrill from seeing half a naked woman on his flabby, cottage-cheese, old-dude arms?

AND. Dude. Buy some clean undershirts, fercryinoutloud! What is it with Old Dudes and their nasty, yellowing undershirts?

The whole incident just felt dirty. Very uncomfortable. What would you have done?

* Lois is my closest neighbor. She raises long-haired Chihuahuas, which are (according to her) pedigreed animals that sell for $400+ to people all over the country. After asking many questions and doing some math, I have concluded that she has 11 (eleven) dogs in her single-wide trailer. AND three cats. NONE (just let me repeat that – NONE) of these animals ever comes outside. Ever. She does not walk them outside at all. Just let that sink in for a minute. Once in awhile one of them will escape and I know they are there because if she happens to leave for any reason they bark. Every minute she’s gone. Without pause. Or maybe they take turns. Hard to tell. It’s a constant din.

 

One Year Ago Part 2

Tomorrow is the narc’s birthday. The Big 6-0. I wrote last year how he feels about birthdays and what his gift to me was. We had just returned from yet another of his Boating Trips and I was furious over what happened on the drive home. He had upped his criticism of me to a degree that I’m sure was noticed by outsiders because I was starting to speak my mind, disregarding his poor, injured ego. The day before his b-day he was lamenting how his “decent into poverty” was all my fault.

On his Big Day I did not acknowledge his birthday. I got him no gift, did not wish him happy day or in any way let him know that I knew the date. He went to his boat and got drunk with friends and then drove home. My stomach was already in knots with worry about how he was going to punish me for “forgetting” his day, so I wasn’t fast enough to call the police to have him arrested for drunk driving. I still regret that…

It was the first time I voiced the thought that I should move out and quit holding him back so he could sell his house and go live his dream on his boat. It was the first time I told him that I thought he liked the idea of me, but not the actual person that I am and that he never had really liked me. It was liberating and terrifying at the same time.

At that point I had no clear idea of how I was going to get away from him, but I knew it was going to have to happen soon or I would snap. I had received word that I would soon have access to a retirement account that I had all but forgotten and visions of freedom were dancing in my head.

Fast forward to this year and my biggest “problem” is how to keep my water hose from freezing up – foam insulation, heat tape or a combination of the two? Fill the fresh water tank and use the inside pump for shower/toilet/sink, unhook the hose until more water is needed and avoid the problem altogether?

I started to make a list of what I would like to give him on his Big Day this year, but have deleted it because it makes me sound just a little bit crazy to be wishing so many horrible skin ailments on one person 🙂

Let me just say that my life has improved 1000% since I left the narc. I thought I was having a run of bad luck in the last years with him, but it turns out that he was my bad luck charm and leaving him was the best thing I’ve ever done for myself!

Have a truly awful day, dickhead!