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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Internal Dialogue #3

Okay, we didn’t work,

And all memories to tell you the truth, aren’t good.

But sometimes there were good times.

Love was good.

I loved your crooked sleep beside me,

And never dreamed afraid.

There should be stars for great wars like ours.

There should be something

To commemorate the pain…

 

Sandra Cisneros

Hard

My dreams and reality

Have definitely collided

So my mind’s in control now

Cuz my heart is too tired.

I’m fighting a war

I should have known I can’t win

So I think it’s time

To fucking give in.

Have I made a mistake?

Should I have stayed dressed

In the mask of my life

Safe and unexpressed?

Where my quiet brokenness

Still passed for whole

And this shadow of doubt

Didn’t blacken my soul?

I don’t know anymore

What I had hoped in my dreams

But this life is not

What she promised to me.

And the disappointment

I assure you

Is acute.

I Want To Remember Today

Found Tasneem Kagalwalla on Medium and had to share. She’s slowly becoming a favorite. Her writings are so raw and so real-atable.
Beautifully sad.
We women just feel so much shit.
And we write about it.
Props ❤


I want to remember the crazy excitement
the tossing and turning
of being in and out of sleep.

I want to remember the pure exhilaration
the smile on my face
waking up to an alarm in the middle of the night.

I want to remember the ecstatic happiness
texting you in the wee hours of the morning
knowing you’ve arrived, somewhere close by.

I want to remember the elated anticipation
sitting up eagerly in bed
looking for your reply.

I want to remember the sheer bliss
when you did
making plans of when and how we’d meet.

I want to remember the mad manic
of the morning
as I blindly rushed through my chores.

I want to remember my furious heart beats
dashing through traffic lights
as I hurried back home.

I want to remember the painful waiting
of when you’d call
imagining all that we would share.

I want to remember the growing restlessness
repeatedly checking my phone
aimlessly pottering around in despair.

I want to remember the intense uneasiness
the worry of wondering why
you wouldn’t call or reply.

I want to remember the wretched anxiousness
every passing hour brought by
as I watched hope being crucified.

I want to remember the searing hurt
flowing through my blood
as the day passed me by.

I want to remember the curdling anger
when you messaged late at night
to nonchalantly say, couldn’t make it this time.

I want to remember the sharp sting
of being stood up
yet another time.

I want to remember feeling so stupid
for making a big deal
of an opportunity you so casually let go by.

I want to remember my burning tears
every drop
that stained my pillow.

I want to remember the punishing loneliness
of a day
I never thought would end this way.

I want to go out of my way
to remember today
so that I can forget you tomorrow.


Photo Inspired #3

Your Name


teach_me

Teach me

Your name

In kisses.

Breathe the letters

Over my tongue

In sweet

Soft whispers.

Show me

Over and over

Till I understand

And spell it back to you

In endless

Slow

Repeat.


“Unless it’s mad, passionate, and extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; Love shouldn’t be one of them.” ~ Unknown

 

Imposter

Beneath the veil of a thin veneer

That shades the proper movements

Of an ordinary life

With no extraordinary strife

There is a tell at the edge of her happy.

 

Not seen by all, but to some so clear

A quivering hesitation

Lives deep in the anguish

Of unspoken language

In the echo of the sweetest laughter.

 

Perfected artifice in surrogate love

She bears her loss in the weight of the lull

Between each step she takes

And works hard not to break

The uncomfortable rhythm of her stride.