Aurora Morealist

Preposterousness!

Aurora Morealist — Tue, 21 May 2013 02:19:08 +0000

My first foray into fantasy… comments and feedback are all most welcome… blew out of me in the first hour of wakefulness this morning so I am not looking for mechanical issues so much as 1. Do you like? 2. Why? 3. Would you like more? And, of course, anything else you care to share Thank you in advance for the read everyone

Much love,

Aurora Morealist

Filed under: BLESSINGS, BONDS, FICTION & CREATIVE NON-FICTION, LIFE, LOVE, ROMANCE, STORIES, WRITING Tagged: acceptance, arts, fantasy, Justice, love, Reading

Ashes to Ashes

Aurora Morealist — Mon, 20 May 2013 05:00:58 +0000

For years after they gave me those electric shock treatments up at the mental hospital ashes came out both of my ears.

That never happened, I told Aunt Marguerite who was only eight years my senior, half giggling to myself that her stories were the same as when she was in her twenties before she met Wanda.

After that my aunt’s chaotic life changed. She finally belonged somewhere and meeting Wanda was undeniably the single best thing that ever happened to her since Chunky Marlow left her at the altar. Actually he never even made it to the altar. Aunt Marguerite immediately began suffering nervous breakdowns that escalated in both frequency and duration until Wanda.

Known as the Larsen Ladies, they lived over forty years together in a benign neighborhood of charming bungalows originally built as army homes. Everyone outside of relations assumed them sisters until Wanda died of a heart attack and Aunt Marguerite came right unglued at the funeral. Nobody would even care about it today but back then, it was as good as having an unwed pregnancy. All I know for sure and will attest to is their love for me, giving me safe haven from the havoc of drunken parents arguing yet again or handing me a birthday gift when no one else appeared to even remember my birth. Looking out for my beloved remaining auntie was the least I could do out of respect for both of them.

How would you know? You weren’t even born yet when I was poisoned by all those rotten smells in that drafty old boarding house.

Marguerite’s words peeled me back from the layers of memories to her room where dust motes danced in the air, brought to life by her expressive hands to play in the sun for a few seconds more. Her eyes were focused on me so sharply I remembered her telling me once “I am the hawk, I see everything.” Her hands rested on the book she was reading when I entered. I read the spine as it lay on her lap “The Last of the Crazy People – Timothy Findley.” I smiled and looked at my aunt’s outfit, her heather grey skirt her favorite garment in winter months.

Aunt Marguerite wore dresses all her life, always looked nicely put together even if she was only going to fetch some turnip for one of her aromatic soups and stews. Even now where no one but myself and the nurses would see her, her hair was bobby-pinned tidily back above each ear, her earrings matched her bright red sweater and her knee high stockings bared their tops below the hem of her wool skirt.

You were the only one affected by those bad smells, remember? I said, pouring some water in glass and taking a long cool swallow. Water is the only thing people can’t fool with, I thought, it always tastes so good. I held a glass out to my aunt who shook her head no at me.

The rest were a hardened bunch, that’s why it didn’t affect anybody else in that boarding house, she said, her eyes daring me again.

Listen to the planes overhead, they go all the time now, she continued, calmer, I can hear them crashing right through the sound barrier.

I thought of all the things I could say. It wouldn’t matter what I said really. Wanda was gone. My Aunt would never be the same again. Death changes you. It leaves you double bound. You don’t want to go on without those you love. And yet you know you must. Somehow.

I can hear the planes too, I said softly, though her care home was a good two hour drive from any airport. When she smiled up at me her eyes went from being small and fearful to become huge orbs of violet love just for me.

Aunt Marguerite, I’ll see you next week, okay?

I said this while kissing the top of her soft white hair, the fragrance of roses wafting up to me.

Don’t let me detain you, she said, her nose already back in her book.

JAM 12Feb2013

black pizza for Ash Wednesday (foodfile.typepad.com)
Tell Me I’m Not Good Enough: An Ash Wednesday Request (insightscoop.typepad.com)

Filed under: BONDS, CREATIVE WRITING, FICTION & CREATIVE NON-FICTION, LOVE, WRITING Tagged: Life, Loss, love, Reading, story

PTSD Part III: Do PTSD and Stupidity have anything in common?

Aurora Morealist — Sat, 18 May 2013 23:57:14 +0000

Regions of the brain affected by PTSD and stress. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The answer is no, no, no. A thousand times no. As a recurrent PTSD sufferer since summer 2010, I want everyone to know what this means. I did NOT lose my intelligence. I LOST my COPING SKILLS. When I first endured PTSD, I didn’t even know what it was called. I didn’t even know I had it. Until I worked my way out of loss of mother, multiple betrayals in partner relationship(s), loss of dog, major move, end of three decades marriage, loss of job, loss of financial standing, loss of ability to cope, loss of half my sibling relationships along with their adult children, I did not have PTSD. Those consecutive losses on the heels of one another trapped me, froze me in time in a place I thought I could work through. Working through MULTIPLE betrayals/grief and mourning involved in loss of relationships whether to actual death or literal death, taking counselling and courses as I did so, a year passed and I graduated a government Job Seekers course just as I learned of another heinous betrayal. A close friend of 20 years who I’d met as a former neighbour when she cried over the fence about her only boyfriend that was over 10 years prior so I went around through her gate to hug her, then she continued to use me – pretending to be my friend for a year all the while pursuing a relationship with my ex when she knew ALL the reasons why I had to leave him. This triggered me right back to square one.

Actually, it triggered me further back because everything came back again. Doubly. All the things I’d worked through, or thought I’d worked through, reared up on my psyche with a vicious, unrelenting cruelty after cruelty. I called her a liar and she wrote “you are of no character value.” Imagine. There is so much more to this, actually about 10 pages of her wild ramblings, including directions to my ex to dispose of me, my things and anything that might remind him of me. Imagine. I couldn’t. I still can’t. But it’s the truth.

You certainly learn who your friends are when you endure such life blows. Many were so self-focused, as they always had been with their needs priority and mine only partially if at all met in meeting theirs. My life long friends I have known since age 17 are still with me but a few co-workers and others I met along the years are no more in my life. I’ve learned that wherever I am not allowed to exist in a relationship because there is only room for the other party – as in my ex and former friend – that this is NOT a relationship. It is a monologue as I am called upon time and again when my aid, support, help or services are needed without reciprocity of any sort from any source. And they who most “used” me because I was “enabling” this, then dared ridicule me when I crashed. Inhumane is just one word that comes to my mind. Were the situation reversed, I would never do that to them. But it is not about me. It never was. And I must remember this.

English: signs and symptoms ptsd (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Stupidity is not a requirement of PTSD. In fact, it may be just the opposite. Those with greater sensitivities and intelligence (not that I loft myself up in the smarts department but I am highly sensitive and publicly state I am an HSP) appear to be more vulnerable to the brain flooding, protecting itself and our bodies while making us “appear” stupid or hysterical when, in fact, we are unable to even think straight. At least, that is and was my experience.

Just because I tremble a lot or often stammer when I say things or had to take medicine to keep me from curling up into an embryo forever more does NOT mean my brain lost everything I ever learned. What it does mean is that my brain overloads and that’s alright.

Any kind of stress or pressure, unfairness or abuse from ANY source can trigger my symptoms even worse. I misplace words in my mind and cannot think of the correct one as in compilation and completion, etc. The only thing I seem to do well these days is write. If I am fooling myself about that, I apologize for my errors or typos.

It’s hard work to decipher what someone else means when you read jumble on a page. It’s even harder to decipher what you mean with a million words swimming in your head with a veil of fog separating you from accessing them and the angst rising in your throat in stammers and gasps that you are frustrated about.

: THE OLD LADY, Oil painting on fabric canvas, May 1973. Size: 1200x700mm (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sometimes I feel like an old, old lady. I must do everything so slowly and carefully to make sure I don’t forget anything important. I have become one of those people who hold the line up for ages and cannot help it because if anyone behind me complains or sighs impatiently, I drop things and take even longer, shake and sometimes cannot think at all, ask the clerk or service person to repeat what they said three or four times. It’s horrible. Luckily because I did not suffer this until after the age of fifty, I am still respected professionally and personally for my excellent communication skills. But they fail me often these days. Those who think so highly of me would be shocked to see who I am now.

Since I never knew much about PTSD, never in my life took anti-anxiety or antidepressants until the summer of 2010 when this all started. That was the summer my Suddenly dropping blood pressure landed me on my face on the bathroom floor, breaking my nose in three places. Other times when my blood pressure dropped (it stopped by the time I got into the specialist and they still don’t know why my blood pressure dropped so suddenly or so often), I would crack the back of my head on a wall, once went down in the park and came to with my head on my purse, luckily, my right hand and knee bleeding on the path.

Even when I was scheduled for emergency surgery in 2007 – they thought I had cancer – I asked them to leave it for relatives who called out of the blue to say they were coming to visit for three weeks. I told myself, I can do this, I just want that visit with them in case it is cancer and I never see them again. So I delayed my surgery which was to be in three weeks, the middle of their stay and was taken in on the eve of Christmas eve that year. It took me a full year to recover, I was still bleeding five months later but it was not cancer so 2008 I knew it was time to get out of my ailing marriage as I did not want to die there.

Then in 2009 our mother fell ill and I stayed those plans again. For as long as I could.

: Grief (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As one who dislikes medication of any sort, I refused. At first. Then when I went fourteen days without sleep after Mom died in 2010, I had to do something and went to the Doctor. Before I go any further, I need to say I really can only speak to my own experience. But I know many have endured same from what I have read online to date and the books I have around me helping me realize this really can be temporary. Though, when I asked the Trauma Counselor yesterday if I would ever be the strong woman I once was, she said only, “It is possible. There are no guarantees.”

Part of me knows this is a fair answer. She has no crystal ball. But I still wish I knew because each time I am “TRIGGERED,” every single symptom roars up with a vengeance and I feel more and more frail about fighting it. As if I’ll never be free of this. And maybe I won’t. Maybe the way I am today is as good as it gets.

This means I can drive but not far. I get lost even in familiar places. Information overwhelms me. If someone is talking too much or too fast, I have to ask them to slow down. I can get a gingerale out of the fridge, bring it and a glass to my computer, sit down to do this and lift my glass to drink – only to find an empty glass as I just did! Because I forgot to pour the gingerale into the glass. Or I can arrive at a store for one thing and walk out with nothing because I forgot what it was. Or I can write myself a note and forget where I put the note or list. Or I can find the item in the store and get too overwhelmed to stand in line and pay so drop my toothpaste on the produce as I exit. Sometimes I can’t even go out of my little apartment. I am always on guard for what next… what next… what next… Triggers… everywhere…

: Closeup of the Mark I triggers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Because the legal processes of dealing with my ex and the loss of a long time friend because of his and her sleazy, conniving actions and choices, just keeps reawakening all the pains and hurts I lived through in the marriage many times over already. Over. And Over. And Over. Yet they continue on, torturing and tormenting my already raped and violated psyche, each knowing I have no support because they took it away. Neither caring if I am suicidal or dead. In fact, if their mental and physical cruelty to me is any evidence at all, I believe they both WANT me dead. But I am not. Dead, I mean.

Oh yes, I know what self-talk, re-directing and grounding are. Too well. But they don’t always work. Sometimes I don’t even have the energy to call a friend. Even if that is precisely what I should be doing. But I do know this. Anyone suffering through anything does not need to hear what they already know:

Well, what can you do for yourself?

Oh, Sensitive One, don’t you think if I knew the answer to THAT, I would not be in this situation at all.

This will pass, in a couple of months, things will improve.

Duh.

You should be over that by now.

Over what? It’s like grieving. There is no certain time frame. It takes as long as it takes.

If it keeps being retriggered by the nastiness of others, you are already into the symptoms before you can think straight… when I stammered on the phone the other night, my ex said “N-N-N, Jesus, (myname), here we go, poor (myname) the victim again.”

No. Not victim. I survived all my ex’s BLAMING ME for all his alcoholism, smoking, gambling and internet addictions while we were married. I also survived him and her mocking me yet again when I am in such a weak position although I shook like a leaf for hours afterward and can lose several night’s good sleep if triggered badly. HE triggered me again the other night. He phoned from a blocked number and I don’t get those calls so said, “Hello?” “Hi it’s me.” “Who is this?” “Well who do you think it is for fucksake?” “I don’t talk to you,” I said before I hung up. Never picking up unidentified numbers again.

: Melencolia I. Print of Albrecht Dürer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Unfortunately, I have had one blast after another hammering at me since summer 2010 with no family support whatsoever other than long distance relatives who send email messages. The PTSD therapist counted my major losses in the past five years and reached nearly twenty, most of those in the past two to three years. Loss after loss after loss. My GP says, Janice, when are we going to get you out from under that dark cloud that keeps following you? I don’t frigging know. But that statement made me feel blamed as if I were responsible for all of these things happening to me. IT IS NOT MY FAULT.

IT WAS NEVER MY FAULT. IT WILL NEVER BE MY FAULT. PTSD is not a happy thing you CHOOSE. Rather, it happens to YOU. My hair fell out. It is back now but it was so thin there for a while, I thought it would always be that way. On bad days, I stagger like a drunk person. On good days I probably look pretty happy but inside, I’m still nervous that it’s only temporary because I am struggling to break out of something I find so difficult to control, it’s like it overtakes me before I know it. But whatever kind of day I am having, I am not suddenly “stupid,” I just lost my coping skills.

As a Highly Sensitive Person who has always been the helper, the caregiver or caretaker or peacemaker, the one who resolved conflict between a brother and sister even as I was sick with H1N1 myself so that they would attend Thanksgiving in the presence of one another for Mom’s sake. The kid who went to the grocery store and stole macaroni at thirteen to cook it for the little ones. The nine year old kid who made Easter for the little ones because there were no adults home to do it. The kid who put everyone and everything before herself until her fifties, always trying to make sure everyone else was happy. The sister and friend who kept confidence after confidence only to have deceit, lies, abandonment and betrayal in return.

The wife who hid everything so well for over three decades, she was able to achieve much professionally, personally and appear the competent one who had it altogether so that people from mom and sisters to friends and co-workers would call on me for advice or help with their situations or problems. I have no idea what it feels like to be taken care of nor what it feels like to “lean.” I have no safe places to do so. They all prove deceitful since I have been fighting PTSD, adding to my battle. Just battle weary.

: Stop-Sign (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It would really be nice if people stopped judging just because I don’t have a cast on my head. In my opinion, if anyone is stupid, it is those ignorant folks who mock, turn away, don’t even try to be kind and understand. Though my face was black and blue for nearly eight weeks in early 2011 from breaking my nose in three places, it was the craziest thing because my face wasn’t aching after the first couple of weeks, yet everyone was so sympathetic and helpful, horrified to see my purple blue face against my pale complexion. Anyway before I get myself all stressed out again with hyper vigilance and angst, to have as fitful a broken sleep as I had just last night, let me share that writing helps me, I don’t know what works for others but writing helps me.

Kindness also helps me because it confirms there are still some kind-hearted people in the world.

Writing on as best I can.

More later, my friends.

PTSD and Suicide Risk (everydayhealth.com)

Top signs of PTSD (casapalmera.com)
Sharing Our Experiences Living With PTSD/TBI Is Important (li4r.typepad.com)
Sharing PTSD Thoughts (layedbacklife.wordpress.com)
Help for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (everydayhealth.com)
What Works for PTSD (23andme.com)

Filed under: BLESSINGS, BONDS, HEART, JUSTICE, LIFE, LOVE Tagged: learning, PTSD, recovering, support, survivor, Writer

Lightning Ahead

Aurora Morealist — Thu, 16 May 2013 07:21:19 +0000

”In the shadow…you can see your own shape… taking shape… as you watch those in the sunshine thinking they are free of darkness…nobody ever is… crossing that line out of shadow to the warmth of light sometimes takes more courage than there is inside you… but you do it anyway because you know there is no other way.”

AuroraMorealist (c) 15May2013

(c) photo AuroraMorealist

Filed under: CREATIVE WRITING, FORGIVENESS, HEART, JUSTICE, LIFE, LOVE Tagged: arts, breathing, Literature, Shadow, soulful, writing

PTSD and ME Part II

Aurora Morealist — Tue, 14 May 2013 19:32:46 +0000

Ptsd and me Part II –

It was freezing outside, I had no protection from the elements in my thin summer jacket while I waited for the bus. On the bus I boarded some people had guns and looked very threatening but for a change, he and she were not among the passengers waiting to attack me. The bus was full of strangers, stony-faced strangers and as the driver sped toward the city, everything went foggy, you couldn’t even see the road at all. It took me a while to jostle my way to the front of the bus to say “you must stop, you will kill us, please stop” and he said, “don’t worry about it , I always know where the road is.” I took a seat behind him and fretted not about the terrorists on the bus who were all waiting to get you alone to torture you but about the fact that the bus might crash and kill me. Why was I so afraid of death, I wondered to myself, when life was this… this constant running and fleeing the bad people who wanted to always hurt me. Why was I not seeing death as a relief, I wondered as the bus wheeled closer to the city, the tall buildings coming into view above the dense clouds of fogginess closing in on the bus. My shoulders began to hurt, they were starting to tear at my flesh with their fingernails, I had to get off of this bus. I began to cry but that didn’t stop them, the terrorists were gouging at my shoulders with their fingernails, warning me of what was to come. The bus driver wouldn’t stop them either. He was one of them. Everyone on the bus was one of them, wanting only to hurt, hurt, hurt and refuse to be kind or even try to understand. Their clawing at my shoulders was smarting, stinging, burning, becoming unbearable. Why did they always claw at me like that?

Unable to immediately comprehend why I was crying, shaking and my shoulders were bleeding again, I fought for consciousness. I got out of bed, wiped away the blood, applied some cream, orienting myself to the fact that I am safe, safe, safe in my little apartment, safe from anyone and anything. Again. None of them can harm me here.

Still, they do. There is a court process ahead of me that nearly kills me each time I see her face there. Why must she come and torment me so when she knows what harm, damage and destruction she has already caused. They know full well they thrust me into PTSD, I told them many times and she works in health care, so she ought to know what this is better than anyone. The court matters are not even any of her business and they never were. But I digress.

The terrors born of betrayal after betrayal from 2011 – 2012 by friend(s), three of my own sisters who asked no questions, just decided a whole lot of things for themselves as per usual, along with some of their adult children who followed suit and other trusted persons who I was always there for, all on the heels of four consecutive losses in four weeks in July 2010 which I was still healing from when shocked over an edge I never saw coming. Who could see such utter abuse and betrayal, who would know people capable of such abuse while claiming they love you…

I had no one.

Parents both gone, I was truly an orphan. There was no safe person in my world any more. They all meant me harm. Sometimes they still do. Just because people smile to your face doesn’t mean a thing.

Mostly the torture is in my dreams now. Rather, my nightmares. Because I cannot allow unhealthy, addicted or harmful user/abuser people in my real world any more. But it is taking time to heal me.

Sadly, when I awaken each day, PTSD is still alive and well in my world. Imagine self-harming without knowing you are doing so… until you awaken…

From 2011-2013 and still fighting and clawing as hard as I can to keep my head above water… to breathe instead of drown.

More next time, my friends.

The nightmares are not over yet.

Filed under: BONDS, CREATIVE WRITING, HEART, JUSTICE, LIFE, LOVE, MEMORIES, OPINION, WRITING Tagged: betrayal, healing, heartbroken, Light, love, Posttraumatic stress disorder, Time

Nothing today but a song for you…

Aurora Morealist — Mon, 13 May 2013 21:57:42 +0000

Before you I decided
Life was best alone
Now I can’t imagine
That old world of cruel stone

Before you nothing seemed
Like anything I’d want to do
Now even nothing is something
Whenever I’m with you
Your kind heart proved trust and love
More than just a scam
I don’t need you more than want you
I already found the best man

Before you everything
Was hard- oh how I’d try
To put the brave face on
Never let them see me cry

Now I cry proud I still can
No more rising floors
Though sad tears happen too
I’m just so happy to be yours

If anyone wishes to buy this song, please contact Aura M here or Aurora Morealist on Facebook via private message, thanks!

Filed under: BLESSINGS, BONDS, HEART, LIFE, LOVE Tagged: love, Lyrics, music, poetry, song, writing

Aurora Morealist

Preposterousness!

Much love,

Aurora Morealist

Ashes to Ashes

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PTSD Part III: Do PTSD and Stupidity have anything in common?

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Lightning Ahead

PTSD and ME Part II

Nothing today but a song for you…