Wound Care

Writing my stories, even in this relatively obscure way, where I know that maybe a few dozen people will happen upon these posts and read them now that this is no longer the hub of my creative life and teaching schedule, comes with no small amount of internal backlash once I hit the button to publish. 

A part of me is off and running, forming new posts, pulling out other long buried memories. Ready to write it all out of my system. But the other part of me, maybe the wiser old crone inside of me even, is cautioning to take a slower approach. 

These are wounds that I am opening, revealing, allowing to be exposed to the air and other peoples scrutiny for the first time in decades. They have not healed properly under cover of darkness. The exposure is painful and requires new dressing, salve to ease the inflammation, rest. 

Wound care. 

 

It's only a number

Statistics have always been comforting to me. They somehow help me make sense out of the world. Validate my experience or affirm my opinions with a cold hard percentage and it strangely brings me peace. It turns out, my attachment to citing statistics is somewhat of an autistic thing. 

Sometimes a statistic will help me gain clarity about a decision. Like getting the vaccine in spite of the higher potential for harmful side effects my chronic illness brings, because the statistics are clear that those with the vaccine are not getting infected as much or as severely as those without, and I couldn't live with myself if I somehow infected one of my grandkids.

Here's a statistic I heard today--on average, it takes a woman seven attempts before she finally breaks free from an abuser permanently. It took me five formal separations before I finally broke free of the mindset that took me back to my husband over and over, not counting all the times I took up residence in a different bedroom, or the studio floor, or the back seat of the car, or a friends guest bedroom for a few nights. Maybe it was 6, if I count the time I checked into a hotel out of desperation. Don't even ask about my two previous marriages.

One time, early on in this marriage, he was having one of his rage episodes. Picture a tiny Godzilla storming through the house, veins popping out of his neck, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, screaming threats as he tore through closets and drawers looking for the items deemed his whenever he raged - my car keys, my money, my checkbook, my debit cards, my phone. Anything that would enable me to seek help or land on my feet if I did escape. The punishment for making him angry was to have it all withheld and be told I had to leave, but then he would block the door and demand even more, telling me to go, while physically blocking my ability to do so. 

On this particular day, I hid in my kids basement bedroom with a few of my own possessions, my purse and car keys tucked inside my coat, while I frantically packed the kids belongings into their school backpacks listening to him rage through the house overhead, demanding all the things.

We were a household of four of his kids and three of mine, all living in a single story ranch house with one bathroom and makeshift unfinished basement bedrooms we built when my kids and I moved in. 

That day, I slid the window of his oldest daughters bedroom open - not an english basement, or a deep window well, with a large window - this was one of those tiny crawl space kind of windows that slid to one side, and one by one I lifted the kids that were home through and we all piled into my car for the only place I could think to escape - his ex in-laws house, because they happened to be out of town and we were keeping an eye on their place. 

It wasn't long before he came looking for us there. With more raging and threats to turn me in for kidnapping, he gathered all of his offspring up and made them leave with him, screaming at them about their loyalty. About a half mile down the road, he pulled over and made his junior high aged daughter get out of the car and walk back to her grandparents because she hesitated too long when he demanded she respond in agreement that I was the enemy. I'll never forget how she rushed into my arms sobbing her anguish and confusion when she got back to her grandparents house. 

It was the last time any of his kids failed to express their loyalty to dad when he raged. After that, whenever he had one of his episodes, he would gather them on the couch afterwards and whisper insulting jokes about me into their ears to make them laugh, while I cooked their dinner and walked on eggshells trying not to trigger him again. 

I tried hard to prove my love to them. Went out of my way to prove I didn't favor my own kids, to my own kids detriment. The bond I tried to form with his kids was severed over and over and to this day they would agree with him that I am just another one of his crazy exes. I finally see how he painted this picture of the crazy ex to me. How easy it was to believe that story because she turned to alcohol and drugs to cope. I actively worked with him to win custody of his kids, because it was so apparent what a mess she was. God forgive me. 

The raging is no longer a part of my life. We have not lived under the same roof for nearly three years now, yet we are still married. The divorce has dragged on and on. I sit here with that same pounding heart and flood of PTSD symptoms and memories welling up, as I compile an ungodly number of documents to prove that I am not hiding income from him. This was his response to my attorney informing the judge that I was in the process of applying for disability. The abuse is now being done through the legal system. 

Sixty-two percent of women on disability report having been physically, emotionally, or sexually abused throughout their life. Higher still among women on the spectrum.

Spiraling Up

 

I am spiraling. I am having trouble accessing the place in my brain where I can anchor, make decisions and a solid plan. It feels like I'm on the side of a cliff clinging to a rock, looking for the next crevice, a toehold. Something. 

This morning I am keenly aware of the illusion of social media. The way that it makes us all appear better than we actually are. Or worse. Depending on the day and the skill of the writer of the post. I'm caught in this place between needing to present myself in such a way that one has confidence in the classes I have for sale and the knowledge that this need has pushed me further away from the authenticity that is so important to me. 

It has been one of the hardest years I've ever had to navigate on my own. The Autism diagnosis came about as a result of the pressure of it all. An ongoing agonizing divorce from an emotionally abusive and toxic relationship that is draining me of every resource, while he builds a story around him of yet another crazy woman he survived. I know this story, it's the same one he used to hook me when we were dating, the story of the crazy ex. He, the belittled man. And when she, with her past emotional baggage-- it's always the ones with the past emotional baggage, comes apart at the seems from the emotional abuse he dealt her and turns back to her old broken behavior patterns, he has the evidence he needs to support the story. 

That girl in the news, Gabby, the one who was killed by her fiance after being pulled over on an epic road trip she had planned, he who was riding the coattails of her dream had been reported for physically abusing her by a witness somewhere along the way, managed to convince the police that she was the crazy one because of her tears and her tumble of words that were mixed up with the toxic guilt women carry for being abused, for not being able to behave their way into not being abused, for not being good enough not to deserve his abuse.  While he, the calm, cool, and collected one laughs with the police and gets a fist bump for his tolerance of what is obviously just another hysterical woman. When I look at her crying in those videos of body-cam footage and see her tear streaked face. I see me. 

Why are we so hysterical? Why indeed. 

My past emotional baggage centers around being Autistic and not knowing. It is the trauma that I grew up under, the not knowing why I couldn't behave my way into the acceptance, and the belonging, and the love, and affirmation I so desperately needed. Every little girl and boy so desperately needs. To continuously bump up against the invisible barriers or trying to behave my way into having my needs met when I couldn't understand why the behaviors expected of me were so hard. I learned self blame. There was no other explanation. 

Fast forward to the perfect storm of pressures. Pressure closes all the doors in my brain. It leaves me without access to the place where I can manage much of anything. The divorce that is still ongoing, brought about the need to address the decade of unfiled back taxes. Another story of Autistic meltdown, burnout, and narcissistic abuse. Life doesn't care if there is too much going on to deal with all at once. Other family matters, all stemming from this missing knowledge of neurodivergent wiring, are bubbling to the surface, coming to a head. Everything. All of it. All at once. 

I've been in a near constant anxiety attack the past few days. It started with a phone call, the kind of a mother's worse nightmares. Not THE phone call. But the one that leaves you waiting for the next. My heart is breaking. 

I sit here writing this post as I anticipate making a call myself. The one that will start the process of applying for disability. Something I should have done ages ago. Something I've needed to face for so very long. Something I have avoided like the plague as the lie in my head convinces me that this is the evidence that will prove to the whole world what a loser I am. The fact that I have worked and worked and worked so hard trying to find a way. Trying to find the right combination to make it possible to pull myself out of this pit and yet my body continues its spiral into chronic health conditions that keep pressing me to release it from those lies. Find a little relief to the pressure. 

The process may be hindered by the fact that I had that one good year. Last year, when everyone was home and the need to connect across the internet was so high that my classes sold swiftly. But that pace I set for myself has just about killed me. Today, one year ago, my appendix nearly burst. So many other physical issues are surfacing. Many of which are comorbid conditions to autism. It really was the missing link to explain it all. The knowing is such a relief. But the knowing doesn't make it all go away. 

And the reality is, this is such a competitive market. I won't stop teaching for now, but I'm working harder and longer for less and less return on my investment. And I can't keep up. The last half of the year would not have been possible without a PPP loan. It's time to start the paperwork process and see how much I will have to pay back. But there he is out there, watching my posts on social media and believing I've somehow made it big and he has revenge in his heart. Life is hard enough without a predator on your heels. 

Pity. This post is full of it. I don't tend to write from a place of pity. Today I needed a release. Somewhere. Somehow. I needed to put these words out there. And here, where maybe a dozen or so people will stumble across my words, I can release just a bit. Put it out there. Speak the truth. The real truth. The whole truth. 

I am spiraling. I just hope I'm spiraling up. 

I'm Overwhelmed

 I'm overwhelmed with the number of things I want to write about today. My words are all mixed up in a jumble as if a ball of yarn the cat got ahold of. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to make sense and get one thing pushed to the forefront. I'm looking forward to the begin. 

Transitions- a new website and a shift in content for this blog

 

The times they are a changin. As I write the title to this post, the line from the Dylan song pops into my head. That is the way of it with me, always a musical underscore to the internal dialogue. 

If you haven't heard the news, I've moved to a new website, one where I can host and teach workshops online, and the student/participant will always have access to the courses they've purchased without having to download and keep track of each one individually. I'm really proud of the way it turned out. And excited at the potential that is there. Still it was no small investment of my resources, my time, energy, finances, and emotions have been all tied up in this endeavor. There is an ongoing task list of things to do there as I continue to add content and explore the working dynamics of the platform. 

With the new website, comes a new blog. I've already posted nearly a dozen blog posts there since opening day just a month ago. I've yet to find a way for readers to subscribe to the blog the way that you can on this one, but I'm still learning. My plan was to close this blog once I mined the old posts for those I wanted to migrate to the new one, but instead, I've decided to repurpose it. 

I know there are a few hundred subscribers here who receive my posts in email format, so I'm writing this mostly to give you fair warning. My art practice has moved, here on the old blog, I will begin to allow myself the release of writing more personal posts about my life and experiences. I've always written in this way, but typically as it pertains to the art I'm making, and as I share my insights and life lessons learned. I will continue that over on the new blog. Here I will share more memoir, short story essay, letters to myself, letters to whoever might need to hear what I have to share, diary style entries, and deeply personal and meaningful thoughts as I work through whatever issue I am facing that day. 

In May of this year, I was diagnosed as a neurodivergent. It has been such a relief and an eye opener to review my life with this new insight. I am Autistic, my traits fall heavily into the ADHD spectrum, so its a double whammy, and I am also Dyspraxic - meaning my brain sometimes sends my body the wrong signals and I easily walk into walls, spill my coffee, hit my face with my car door breaking my front teeth (only one of the pinnacle of incidents leading me to seek the diagnosis), and frequently causing my mouth to spit out the wrong word, wrong name, or mispronounce something I've said a million times before. And then shockingly to me, I am also slightly Dyslexic. 

My IQ test revealed a higher than average intelligence, but my functioning life scores were embarrassingly low. The psychiatrist explained I must have developed a strong sense of intuition to be able to adapt to the demands of a daily existence not knowing the cause of the internal struggles that are my constant. It all explains so much. 

Saying a diagnosis is a relief allows some to believe I am doing just fine. And I am, sort of-ish. Mainly because my physical and emotional pain thresholds are high. I am fine in the way that I am sitting up and still trying to function. It has been hands down one of the most difficult years of my life. That pinnacle of events I mentioned leading to the diagnosis, was a hellscape of traumas piling on top of each other, much of which are ongoing. Suffocating and debilitating. 

I now know the proper terms for the way these experiences are affecting me. This year has been mostly consumed by a state of Autistic Burnout. Autistic meltdown after autistic meltdown, has left me incapable of performing daily tasks, functioning at a normal level, communicating well, or maintaining so many things in my life that are important to me. I've been operating out of hyper-vigilance survival mode. And from an outward perspective, I've not allowed myself to reveal even a fraction of what is happening behind the scenes. Writing has always come easier to me then speaking, I can craft a post and edit it, look up words that are being elusive and only post when I feel reasonably sure I won't look as daft as I feel. 

I see people respond to the news of my diagnosis with dismissal, disapproval, and rejection. Mainly the people who I've spent time with in the past and had favorable interactions with. We tend to freeze people into timelines and roles in our minds. But those closest to me have been receiving me with open arms. Listening to my experiences with a desire to understand. And many of my closest friends turned out to be neurodivergent too. We do tend to be drawn to people who are most like us. I love that those are my most creative and big hearted friends. I'm so honored and proud to belong to this group. 

Now I am in a place of developing resources that will help me to function with the new knowledge I have about why these things I go through keep happening to me. My body and mind are slowly starting to unwind from the tight knot they've been bound up in. But I'm also keenly aware of the need to continue to slow down the pace and release the pressure valves, as the knowledge alone does not keep the burnouts and meltdowns at bay. Autism is a circle of traits. On any given day some are stronger than others and my level of functioning changes at the drop of a dime.

I picture a cat sitting on a counter among an array of personal items, knocking them to the floor at random. A hairbrush goes scattering; today I am unable to perform the daily tasks to groom myself. A pocket watch is bounced across the floor; I have absolutely no sense of time passing. There goes the photo album; I don't recognize my own daughter standing in front of me in the grocery store. What will the cat knock from the counter today?

It has always been this way. I've learned to adapt and hide these things out of fear and shame in the not understanding. Autistic masking is one of the biggest traits that cause women to limp through life undiagnosed. I very much fit the profile of learning how to be a person by studying how other people interact with each other. Now I understand why. 

Girls of my generation were woefully under-diagnosed. Science is just now catching up with us. The number of adult women suddenly being diagnosed has everything to do with the fact that our traits as children caused us to be overlooked by the researchers. We were malleable and eager to please. We were quiet daydreamers, too fearful to speak up in class. We were the last ones to make it out of school at the end of the day, dragging our book bags stuffed with unfinished assignments, tripping over our untied shoelaces, and looking for the mitten that was just in our hands. Painfully afraid. 

As I process these things I often find myself wanting to share in my writing. But I've had nowhere to put it out there until now. The new blog and website will continue to be about my art, community, and classes. Here I will allow myself the freedom to just write.

If you've made it this far, I thank you for the time you invested in reading this. 
The new website is called Canary Rising and can be found at this link. 
The new blog can be directly accessed at this link. 
The current course offerings are all listed here. 

With so much love and gratitude,

Crystal Marie