Indigo Survivors: Pt 2

Indigo Survivors are indigenous to the Blue Island of Emotional Misfits. The Abused. The Broken. The Mishandled. The churned up and spat out products of systemic failure.

We are Social Unreliables through no fault of our own.

Our birth message: “You are not good enough the way you are. So change.”

We live our entire lives in survival mode. Some learn to become Laudable Liars, Master Manipulators or Perfect People Pleasers. Some learn to become Coldhearted Calculators, Insensitive Inhumans or Heartless Haters.

Some become all.

And all are incomplete.

Imperfect. Emotionally Fragile. Human Beings.

But all are worthy of Love.

Just sayin…

Hi. My name is Trish.

And I am an Indigo Survivor.

This is another small piece of my story…


Not so long ago someone close to me used to accuse me of “being afraid of confrontation”. And because their opinion of me mattered, it irked because it implied cowardice. As if I was somehow less because I didn’t like Fighting. Arguing. Demanding. Yelling. Screaming. And I avoided it completely, whenever possible.

That irk eventually settled into the space between my own personal cause and effect. And lately I’ve been asking myself “Why”. Why am I afraid of confrontation? And why do I feel so anxious and panicked whenever I know I am about to deal with one? So I’ve started digging into my triggers.

Funny word Trigger: A thing that serves as a stimulus and initiates a reaction.

I had never heard the word trigger unrelated to a weapon prior to coming out and falling in love with a woman who also happened to be an Indigo Survivor. Go figure. Two peas in an over emotionally stuffed pod. Ya. That was a tough one. We stimulus-ed the hell out of each other and triggered right to the end. Since then, I’ve noticed that trigger has become an easy part of our social vernacular. The new rationale underpinning the human villainy in child abuse, domestic violence and intentional killing. And ya, the breaking of hearts.

We all have triggers.

I don’t really see how we couldn’t have them!

I know I certainly have them. And some of them are pretty fucking big.

Confrontation is definitely one of them.

Way too early in this Life I learned to make peace with Abuse. When I was 2, I learned from my Mother, that Love usually meant physical pain. Later, at 4, I learned the caregivers I was entrusted to were mostly vile and cruel. At 5, I learned that I needed to protect myself and my little brother from the horrors of the Children’s Aid Society and the villains residing within. I learned that any display of disappointment, emotional upset, crying, or rebellion was met with angry confrontation. And was usually followed up with some form of harsh discipline, deliberate pain, ultimate rejection, verbal and mental abuse, or cruel abandonment.

(Not much of that has changed in adulthood…)

I learned to play nice. Not create waves. And made myself invisible.

(Sigh. Same…)

But most importantly, I learned to read people.

Body Language. Facial Cues.

Dead giveaways.

So I learned how to hide my own.

With these tools I learned when to stay and when to go. When to run and when to hide. When to shoulder blame in order to protect and falsely admit my guilt. Or when to tell the truth. When not to trust. Anyone. And when to lie. To everyone.

These were skills that sometimes saved me from harm.

But not always.

I watched the faces of both trusting Mother, and pig Masquerader, morph from protector to predator. The images scar me deep. I learned the only thing I could trust was my correct observation of not what was being said, but what lay hidden and lying in wait.

I learned that people wore masks of politeness.

And that they can be really, really mean.

I watched as eyes shifted from warm acceptance to cold disapproval. As they blackened with hatred because I had become a burden; or because of the color of my skin; or because of my forced presence in their family. I watched as mouths tightened. Skin flushed. Nostrils flared. Backs stiffened. Breath quickened. Fists clenched.

I learned that some masks were harder to see through. So I watched and listened to see if the words spoken matched the faces in view. I learned to read the tells that warned me of danger. Of violence. Of terror. Of shit I shouldn’t have understood so young.

I became Smart. Clever. Wise.

And old.

Knowledge benefited.

And ensured I survived

So, ya. Guilty.

I still fear the Anger and Abuse attached to

The fucking Confrontation.

It’s a thing.

But I’m not a fucking coward.

And now, thanks to irreparable damage from those lovely childhood confrontations, I now suffer from PTSD. Short-lived therapy sessions determined this for me. I didn’t need it to be blotted down in ink, in a file, in a drawer, that will remain hidden until the unlikely (or likely?) event that I just fucking snap one day. But, if I ever need proof in defense of my kinda crazy, it’s nice to have some of my shit validated.

And there’s a name for that.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can develop after experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event such as exposure to actual or threatened death, serious injury, or sexual violence. PTSD is diagnosed after a person experiences symptoms for at least one month following a traumatic event. The disorder is characterized by three main types of symptoms: Re-experiencing the trauma through intrusive distressing recollections of the event, flashbacks, and nightmares.

When I first read this definition, the dark-humored part of me thought, “Seriously? Is there anyone who isn’t suffering from some from of PTSD?” 😉

I still suffer from horrific nightmares of my death, of loved ones deaths, of demons and demonic possessions, of being terrorized, being tortured, being shot multiple times, being raped and beaten. I’ve been burned, stabbed, mutilated, dismembered and set on fire. Ya, you name it, I’ve dreamed it.

And I’ve been fearful of sleep for nearly 50 years.

I still have terrifying dreams of my Mother. Alive and well and able to kill me.

And she died over 15 years ago.

Some shit just never goes away.

So, ya. I’m struggling and trying to process all the friggin trauma in my life. I am affected. Profoundly. I try to live in the light, but there is still so much darkness inside of me. This Life has not been kind. And there was simply no time to feel any of the emotions attached to so many of the big events. Life kinda happened to me and whoosh! Survival mode kicked in. Forced to go through doors I had no choice but to open. Forced from one toxic situation to another. Too young. Too innocent. Too vulnerable. With no say in what happened to ME or my personage.

Don’t get me wrong. I am truly grateful for having survived all of the crazy. But lately, for a multitude of reasons I can’t fully express, I’ve been wondering where, inside of me, all those feelings are hiding.

And if I should try and find them.

Maybe, they can help  me understand why I tick the way I tick.

Maybe, I can love me better.

Maybe, I can love you better.

I recognize this is a problem. And I’d like it resolved before I die.

Cuz I really don’t want to have to live this Life all over again! 😉

I don’t feel like my story is necessarily ‘new’, nor, for that matter, do I feel it’s ‘cliche’. It is simply my story. And I’m feeling the need to walk back through some of the doors that lead me here.

Slowly this time.

In control. In sync. In Appreciation.

With eyes wide open.

Cuz my Life and my Self

Are kinda worth re-discovering.

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Moon Love

Since Rhonda’s death, and subsequent Celebration of Life, when I hear friends who I myself introduced to her, and who barely knew her, laugh and talk of her last few years, I just want to scream.

When they speak of the bond they shared over music, conversation and coming out, I am overwhelmed with such a raging sense of betrayal, broken trust and abandonment that the loss of my friend itself has become almost secondary.

Almost.

In my woundedness I fell into a place of childlike pain and reflection. Of helplessness and lonesomeness. Lost in despair of broken trust and the pain of abandonment. I cried so hard and so deep and felt such pain that the bowels of heaven and earth must have shifted in empathy to make room for more of my tears.

And I started talking to the moon. Again.

Then I found this beautiful read.

An imagery that captured my soul and spoke to my 4 year old self. Funny how stuff just shows up when your heart needs it most. It’s not luck, or magic or coincidence. It’s the Universe at work with the law of attraction.

In reading Jessica’s story, which found me online, I recognized that I too have talked to the moon since childhood. Private conversations that honor my deepest feelings. Existing otherwise silent on a plane buried deep within my 4 year olds recognition of being unloved and unwanted. It is a hurt that has no remedy. No platitude. No fix. Buried deep in my psyche, entrenched by the magnificent volume of sheer repetition.

I don’t know if I can ever heal this wound. It bleeds with such little provocation. So deep and raw is the source.

My friend, my truest sister, left me alone to suffer a cruel punishment for a crime I didn’t commit but one I will pay for whenever I think of her now. Hear her name. Or learn of another life experience I should have shared with her. The suffering is acute. The questions endless. The pain familiar. The hurt stings my eyes in overflow.

It is not merely a jealousy that others were privy to her company the last few months of her life and I was not. It is the deeper, unbearable knowing that I was not wanted.

And I have nowhere to put that.

Nowhere at all.

So, it hangs in the quiet luminescence of conversation with the moon.

moon_love_1

R.I.P. Rhonda Patterson

I just lost a friend. My soul sister. And a big chunk of my heart. About 10 days ago she came to me 3 nights in a row in beautiful dreams filled with fun, laughter and the pure joy of childlike love, and we danced the perfect dance of true friendship. She was happy, healthy, energized, full of vitality and a wicked sense of humor. They were powerful dreams, so vivid and real and filled with an unconditional love I can not explain. I awoke feeling such an overwhelming sense of gratitude and happiness that I was with her again, living in the essence and innocence of our true friendship, that I refused to let darker thoughts of her possible death enter my mind.

We hadn’t spoken in 4 years. She was unwell. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. But mostly, she was an addict. And stupid shit got in the way. Arguments mixed with alcohol mixed with anger mixed with fear from a body shutting down, one organ at at time. And denial. Lots and lots of denial. But I prayed we would talk and laugh again. That we would make up. That somehow with love and patience and kindness and compassion those of us reaching out to her could heal her with our intentions and intervention. I reached out over and over and over. Sent emails and phone messages and work messages and messages on Messenger. But she wouldn’t let me back in. Couldn’t let me back in. I understand the whys and the hows and all the big disturbing realities of her life. I understood that her illness was addling her brain. That she was beyond repair. That it wasn’t personal. That it was the booze. But that didn’t matter. Hurt is hurt. It hurt then. And it hurts now. Deeply. But being ever the optimistic and never one to give up on a friend, I hoped beyond hope that we would reconnect and that I’d see her again.

I believed, like we all do, that we still had lots of time to reunite and make amends.

Until yesterday.

Her daughter contacted me and soon afterward I was told my friend had passed away on an undetermined date. That she had been found dead in her home and no-one knew how long she had been there. The details are being evidenced even as I write this but the coroner thinks anywhere from a week to about 10 days.

About 10 days.

We don’t know the time or cause of death yet, but I do know, without an ounce of doubt, that about 10 days ago my beautiful, loyal, giving, broken, passionate, tortured, loving friend came to me and said goodbye. And we played and joked and laughed like children. And it was beautiful. And I will forever be grateful for our last dance.

I love you, Rhonda. Thank you for being such a beautiful light in my darkest times, and for sharing my passion for storytelling. Thank you for making me belly laugh and nearly pee my pants. Thank you for midnight runway cat hunts and teaching me not to be afraid of the BBQ. Thank you for encouraging me to sneak out of the group home just before dawn, walk to the beach and wrapped in a blanket, sit and watch the most spectacular sunrise I’ve ever seen ~ before going home and getting grounded. Thank you for believing that I could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Thank you for telling me about the pleasure of inner orgasms and that making love isn’t sex, but a merging of two souls deeply connected. Thank you for fueling my need and desire to dream fantastical dreams as only a Pisces can do. Thank you for being the voice of reason when my fear stopped me dead. And thank you for showing me that living in your truth takes courage and an indomitable will. You taught me so much much more than this and I will be forever grateful for having you in my life.

Even as I write this the tears are streaming down my face as the memories of a 40 year friendship come flooding in. I know that you loved me and I am as equally important to you as you are to me. But this is so surreal. I can’t believe you’re really gone. I’ve missed you so much and will continue to miss you like mad for the rest of my life. Rest my friend. Enjoy exploring the wonders of the Universe. And if you can, send me a sign that Life After Death friggin ROCKS! If anyone can, it’s you. I love you. And I know we will dance again. ❤️❤️❤️


We’re planning a Celebration of Life after her cremation and if I know Rhonda, she’s hanging around just waiting for the party to get started! And to all of you, let me just say right now, that if you have someone in your life who you are on the outs with, no matter what the reason ~pride, arrogance, defiance or just plain old holding a grudge that you aren’t mature enough to let of. Dig deep; grow up and let that shit go! Reach out and tell them you forgive and love them regardless of whether they accept it or not. Do your part to heal the rift.

Cuz after Death, there are no Do-Overs.

 ❤️💛💚💙

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Goodbye my friend. See you on the other side.❤️

Ashes: Pt 1

My mom died.

The relentless one.

The one I’ve lived a lifetime it seems, trying to please.

And failed.

Jennie Griffiths. RIP.

You were a tough love. But you were the only woman who felt like Mother.

Sad. Confused. Completely.

Been a bit of a struggle to get back here since the news. Lots of feelings swirling and fogging up the windshield. Working thru it…and Wow is all I’ve got.

Can’t see clearly right now.

But I’ll be back.

Every. Single. Day.

“There’s such unnecessary sorrow
In love unspoken.”

~Me~


I woke up today thinking about mortality.

And the precious time we waste getting this love thing all wrong.

K’s cancer diagnosis and upcoming surgery has given rise to much emotional thinking. Prevalent now, are thoughts of wasted moments ticked by in silence. A silence that should have been filled with love. Love that could have created harmony. Peacefulness. And a beautiful knowing that reaches far beyond the breadth of a relationship. Even beyond the breath of life.

I thought about Khalid.

And how often we said “I love you” to eachother. And to be honest, I don’t remember us being super mushy and full of syrup. We laughed a lot. We loved a lot. We had one of those quiet, deep and passionate loves. The kind that fortifies no matter how stormy the weather. But we didn’t actually say “I love you” a lot. We didn’t have to. It was completely understood. I think… I hope. But we should have. I should have. Every. Single. Day. He meant the world to me. He made me happy. And he gave me his heart so selflessly. So effortlessly. He was Unconditional Love. Personified. I should have been tripping over the words. Shouting it from the roof tops. Daily. But I didn’t. I was too angry. And too scared. His illness terrified me. The tumor in his brain a constant reminder that I was going to lose him. That cancer was killing him. Slowly. Stealing his love from me. And that for every truly happy moment we shared, weeks were being taken away. And though I loved him so intensely, I didn’t tell him I loved him like I was gonna lose him. I left too much silence in the spaces between his seizures, his surgeries and his death. It was only in the darkness of my grieving that I wailed it to the heavens. Often. In desperate hope that he would finally, really hear me. And I am content, in the end, that he did.

And now. It is known. From an unbreachable distance.

Some days. Like today. I can’t help but wonder how different our time together would have been if I had just said the words. More.

And then I thought about P.

We rarely said “I love you” to each other. Not nearly enough for the passion we shared. The obsession. The constant craving. Not nearly enough for the great love I felt. For her. Fear of how easily and carelessly she would hurt me, stopped me. Afraid to expose my heart. I became…careful. Not always saying the words when they wanted so badly to be said. Perhaps, that was my mistake. Hers was not knowing how. Instead, we became ensnared in filling our precious moments with accusations, mistrust and one-up-manship. You hurt me. I hurt you back. So busy proving ourselves right not to trust in the vulnerability of love. We missed the sweetness in the knowing we were already so deep in it. And wasted 5 years engaged in a pointless war. One that would never have started if we’d just been less wounded. Less afraid. Braver. Kinder. And had just said the words we both so desperately needed to hear. Every. Single. Day. Showing and telling eachother just how deeply we loved. Because the sad truth is, we really, truly did. Stalemate offers no comfort.

And now. It is known. From an unbreachable distance.

Some days. Like today. I can’t help but wonder how different our time together would have been if we had just said the words. More.

And now there’s K.

Sweet, loving and loveable K. Who wears her heart emblazoned like the S in the Superman logo. Who knows no fear in love. Who walks into the raging inferno of that uncertainty, vulnerable and with open arms. Never knowing if she’ll be loved back. Or if kryptonite will take her down. Standing strong in the conviction of her belief in Love’s power. I am in awe. And I am blessed. She is that elusive Unconditional  Love. Personified. And she tells me she loves me. Every. Single. Day.

I was uncomfortable with all her sweet talk. Her random blurts of love half a dozen times a day. Her “Where did you come from, Cotton-Eyed Joe”-ness. Her genuine kindness and giving. The things she did and still does…just to see me happy? Hmm. I haven’t had that kind of love in almost 23 years. Almost half a lifetime. It feels alien now. Unfamiliar. Untrustworthy. What’s the catch? I have reasons not to trust expressions of love. They’ve proven false countless times. Love lies hurt. A lot. And I have never trusted love spoken too soon either. I mean who says “I love you” – and means it – just weeks into a relationship?! Liars and manipulators, that’s who.

And maybe lesbians 😉

But how can those quick, hurried proclamations be trusted? Love is HUGE! Real love, that is. The kind of love that lasts. That’s deep and knowing. That remains steady when the flames have cooled and the love story is not always perfect. It’s not something to be bandied about. Traded back and forth like hockey cards. Or toaster ovens. Or declared in the heat of passion. Or used against someone to move them against their nature…

Love is powerful. Love is gentle. Love is beautiful. And Love is kind. And even though K still says “I Love You” far more then I am completely comfortable with, I get it. There is power in repetition. 

This repetition has gained my trust. Encouraged bravery.

This repetition has instilled security. Given haven.

This repetition has proven reliability. Allowed hope.

This repetition has introduced a quiet consistency. A strength. A bond. For moments like this. When the love story isn’t perfect…

Lightbulb moment? Ya…kinda.

I really didn’t know all this was happening while I was dodging K’s love bullets. But I see it now. And I understand the truth in just how important saying the words really is. I have spent a lifetime mistrusting love because the promise of it, and eventual withholding of it, has been far too painful to endure. But I have wanted love. Wanted to be loved. Perhaps more then most. Done “things” in the hope of it. Have compromised myself more then I care to admit because of it. And eventually I learned that it is far easier to scorn it. Belittle it. Challenge it at every turn. Then to give in to the hope and dream of it. And the acceptance that maybe, just maybe, this time might be IT. It’s a difficult, lonely and unnecessarily sad path to follow. And I don’t recommend it.

My daughter once told me that LOVE doesn’t hurt; people hurt. She is right. Love doesn’t hurt. It’s a wonderfully warm and glowing hug that fills you up with the most incredible and fulfilling light. And if you are lucky enough to feel its amazing power, always ALWAYS try and give it back. No matter what. Love deserves that. Don’t compare it. Don’t analyze it. Don’t abuse it. Embrace it. It truly is what life is all about.

And if you feel it. And it scares you. And you want to run as far away from it as you possibly can. DON’T.

Even if you feel like it’s too late to say it. That it doesn’t matter. That it has no power. No value. That nothing will change. DO IT ANYHOW.

Say the words.

I LOVE YOU

I LOVE YOU

I LOVE YOU

Every. Single. Day.

And repeat them. Over and over and over.

They matter.

To someone.

So much more then you realize.

Don’t wait to make it known. From an unbreachable distance.

And have days. Like today. Where you can’t help but wonder how different your time together would have been if you had just said the words. More.

~