One Might Say…

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That a Divorce and Dissociation Doula would be indispensable

 

That a SanctiMommy Spirit Guide would be useful

 

That a Gymboree Grief Group would be helpful

 

That a Cancer Conquerer would be a miracle

 

That an Abuse Avenger would be a G-dsend

 

That a tree which grows viable renewable currency would be nice to have.

 

I would like to express more on these topics, but it is all too painful and raw.

 

Hold your friends and family and neighbors and community members,

close to your hearts and in your prayers.

We are all going through something,

and that something is sometimes better than nothing,

and sometimes it is the absolute worst.

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

SWUFF

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Single, White, Unemployed, Fuller, Female.  Has ridden a camel in the desert and an amateur understanding of Brexit.  Enjoys water, weather and world stuffs.  Seeking.

 

I am not sure what I am seeking.

 

It’s difficult to imagine putting any of my requests out into the universe.  I have done that before and it sure as F did not work out the way I imagined.

I currently tend to take each moment as it presents itself.

Oh, we’re doing this now, with a basketball and a can of sardines?

Sure. Absolutely.

I call the fork, you may have the crackers and first shot.

 

At a friend’s home for a dinner party (kids outside running wild with snack bags and flashlights, grown-ups inside with wild conversation), the topic of online dating comes up.

I am not online/inline/ftf dating, so I listen in.  Also, again, awkward introvert here.

 

A lovely woman (not sarcastically lovely, she is lovely), begins telling the tales of her awesome brother’s online dating dramas.  A paraphrased part of the conversation:

 

LW (Lovely Woman):  You just would not believe the women my brother has met.  It’s ridiculous how many women are out there, just waiting for any meager bit of attention. My brother strikes up conversations, everything seems to be going well, and then inevitably these women turn out to be bat-sh!t crazy.  They have had horrible divorces, been abused, abandoned or have crazy ex’s who are going to kill them or kill anyone who dates them.  I just don’t know how he is going to meet anyone normal on those sites.  These women are crazy.

Me: (in my brain) Holy f’in sh!t.  That is me. (reality moment) If I were online dating, I would totally be the crazy woman. Man, my situation is uniquely messed up.  Yet, somehow also universal.

 

How is it that there are so many of us?  What the heck is going on?  Clearly we are capable of some level of intelligence – as evidenced by our ability to use a computer.  Yet.  There we are.   And there are a lot of us, apparently.

 

Come to think of it, out of 8 roommates through my college years, 4 of us have been victims of sexual abuse as a child or as an adult.  Possibly more of us, but I am not personally aware of abuse with the other women.

 

50% of my college roommates understand abuse from personal experience

 

Wowza

 

How can this be true, and then we all feel so shocked, outraged and horrified that women/girls/men/boys are abused every day throughout the world?

Are we entirely unaware that our people are no different than their people?

It doesn’t matter if you are living with a precarious religious regime, famine area, 1000+ year-old culture of castes, democratic state, autocratic state, monarchy, dictatorship, military control, suffering natural disasters, 1200BC, 1200AD, 1800AD, 2016AD, you will easily find humans overtly abusing other humans.

Even in our smug part of the world.

 

Power and control.  Humanity being itself.

 

It sure is taking us a long time as a species to learn how to move beyond punching or raping someone as a means of dominance and compliance. We cannot even agree in our country, in our state, in our school, that a child touching another child in a way they do not want to be touched, is a serious problem.

We “teach” about bullying with our words, but our actions do not reflect what we are saying to our children. It’s always happening somewhere else, or it’s just children playing, or that guy deserved to be cut-off and flipped off because he pulled out in front of me, or she/he was asking for it so I smacked them in the face, etc.

Please let us stop not talking about this.

 

How do we allow for complete emotions, in a healthy manner? 

How are we role-modeling for our children (even mistakes)? 

How are we teaching our children to express themselves? To protect themselves?

To empathize with each other?

 

I do hope and pray that this truly is a time of enlightenment in human history, which will allow space for such a complete shift in motivations and actions, that abuse of another human seems unreal to future generations.

The news is daunting on that front.

Perhaps we can take heart that universal conversations,

now started,

like the toothpaste out of a tube,

cannot be stuffed back in. 

With the instant connections and ability to humanize each other’s stories, empathize, sympathize and hold space for each other’s souls, maybe, maybe, maybe…  treating each other with kindness, respect and consideration, is what I am seeking.

 

Love, admittedly optimistic, possibly naïve, Ms Herisme xo

*POOF*

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Hardly anyone phones me up.

This is NOT a plea for anyone to call me on the telephone.  I am horrible on the telephone.  Without physical conversation cues, I’m all flustered with silences, weird pauses, speaking over each other, dropping the phone and then explaining how the phone dropped, wandering mind, etc

 

Actually, even with physical conversation cues, I am quite awkward.

 

Anywho…

 

When my telephone buzzes (I rarely have the sound on because the noise is too jarring for me – and, yes ALL the ringtones are jarring to my sensitive ears, including harp, but thank you for the suggestion), and I do not recognize the incoming number, I do not answer the telephone.

 

There is always this lingering worry that it will be MrexH, or someone in his family, and they will be angry and horrid with me, MrexH might express his interest in murdering me again.  Or something awful has happened and a Police Officer, State Trooper, or even worse, my attorney, is contacting me with the bad news.  I am not ready for any of those things – again.

 

Or, it could be a telemarketer, and I do not want to speak with them either.

 

Last week, my telephone rang in the morning, with an incoming number that I do not know – however, this was a number for my city/state.  ALARM BELLS went off in my brain and I let the phone ring 4 times before I decided to bite the bullet of fear and answer the telephone.

 

It was the assistant from my attorney’s office.

Uh-Oh

As soon as I heard her voice, my stomach split in two and dropped into my legs.

 

The call was benign, as calls go.  But, it took me a while to calm down just from the stress of contact with my attorney’s office.  The office assistant is a lovely person, and has gone out of her way to be kind and welcoming to me.  It’s the whole idea of knowing why we have a relationship at all, that is upsetting.

 

She wanted me to stop by the office and pick up some hard copies from my divorce case, and decide if there was anything that I wanted to keep.

We set up a time for me to do that.

I drove into my little downtown, parked in the courthouse parking deck, and walked to my attorney’s office across the street.

 

By this time, my mind was completely blank and numb.  I have to go into this space of, “What would Oprah do right now?” and just keep moving forward.  Oprah would just jay-walk across that one-way street in front of the courthouse and all of those parked police vehicles, and be confident in her stride into her attorney’s office.  Or was it Dr. Phil’s office that she strode confidently into?  It was somewhere, and Dr. Phil was there, the cattle farmers lost their case against Oprah, and Dr. Phil got his own show as a side bonus!

 

I did the jay-walk thing, minus the confident stride, and plus twisting my hair into a giant knot on top of my head as I walked because it was ridiculously hot and humid – so also minus any of Oprah’s presence or finesse.

 

The paperwork consisted of a 5 inch thick stack.

 

It was too nervewracking for me to stay in the office and look through the daunting stack, so I said my, “thank-you”s, and skeedaddled out of there.

 

I felt more confident walking back to my car, because I had an impressive stack of papers to hold – like a comfort blankie.

More Linus than Oprah.

Out of that stack of papers, the only piece that seemed worth saving was the less than 1/4inch bound deposition of MrexH official transcript.

That transcript = $640

Just for the copy of the transcript.

 

This amount does not include the cost of my attorney’s time, SonHerisme attorney’s time, or my time, or my severe emotional strain, or the stupid (yet delicious) take-out tomato soup I stepped out to eat at our lunch break, OR my parking costs…

 

Ugh

So. Much. F’in. Money.

Just gone.

*POOF*

 

The rest of the paperwork?

I shoved it into the chiminea at 10am and had myself a lil’ ol’ bonfahr

*POOF*

 

Sadly, no marshmallows were consumed.

This fiery episode sounds like it should have been cathartic.  It was not.  I did not feel anything other than now I did not have to file the remainder of the papers.

*POOF*

Do not panic if you are unable to reach me by telephone.  I have not disappeared, although some days I would like to do so.  I am only nervous and awkward and frightened and concerned.

 *POOF*

 

I wish I could magic all of that away too!

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

ps.  Thank you, oh great tribe of friends, for sticking with me!

 

 

 

 

Que Sera, Sera

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Standing outside of the karate studio, watching my niece’s belt test, after SonHerisme’s belt test, the thoughts that flew through my mind:

 If MrexH were to show up here and threaten to make a violent scene if I did not get into the car right then with him, what would I do?

If I went with him, would this be when he kills me?

If I somehow pulled away from him, would we survive whatever scene he would make?

How fast could those karate instructors get to their telephones to call 911?  Would the karate instructors use karate?

Would whatever was about to occur, ruin the emotional health of everyone present?

How would SonHerisme be?  Who would make sure he got home?

 

I became so eerily frightened, that I ended up pushing my way back into the over-filled karate studio, so that if MrexH did show up, I would not be able to hear him, so there would be no decision for me to make.

Que sera, sera…  Whatever will, be will be

 

Last night, I received two Facetime calls from MrexH’s former company’s Vice President.  How odd.  Probably mistakes.  While we were in professional communication during the initial crisis, once MrexH was arrested, we have had no professional reason to maintain contact.  With all of the legal issues surrounding MrexH, it is understandable that his former company (whom he was also threatening), needed to maintain distance from me.

With the unusual Facetime calls, my thoughts spiraled into:

 Is there any reason this VP would be at the workplace in the evening, and MrexH has gone there?

Does MrexH know where VP lives?

Since I did not answer the Facetime calls, if it is MrexH, is he going to show up at my home in an agitated state?  Is this the night that he is going to kill us?

I became so frightened, that I double checked all the locked doors, set the house alarm early, and left our future to fate.

Que sera, sera…  Whatever will be, will be

 

(spoiler alert– we were not murdered)

 

As I no longer have a therapist, (which might be an issue because, like, anxiety and such from this and that) during an update meeting with SonHerisme’s therapist, it did come up that one of the most difficult things about our situation, is the not knowing.

I do not know what is going on with MrexH.

I do not know if he is still interested in killing us.

I do not know if he has access to a vehicle.

I do not know if he comes into our town on passes from his facility.

I do not know if he is well or unwell.

I do not know what he is capable of.

I do not know anything.

Mental Illness can be very unpredictable – especially with MrexH’s history.

I just do not know how to hope/predict/plan/prepare etc.

So, I figure out ways to cope with moving through each day, hour, minute and onto the next (with a safety plan).  I go through all of the things this moment actually is –

we are safe in this moment,

we have a roof over our heads in this moment,

we are cared for in this moment,

we are clothed in this moment etc.

And if he does arrive to murder us, I have no control over that.

Isn’t it always something odd, something seemingly benign at the time, which turns out to be the foreshadowing of tragedy?

Perhaps I read too much.

 

Que sera, sera…  Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera, sera

What will be, will be

 

Love, Ms Herisme xo

ps. Those of you having similar experiences, please know that I am fiercely holding you in prayers for safety, peace, and comfort

pps.  I love Doris Day!

Milk and Car-line Pot

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It breaks any parent’s heart to see their child’s feelings dismissed or bruised.

My child has been exposed to this from infancy due to my poor mate selection.

I am no saint.  I do feel like I have a healthy strong bond with my son, however, so we are able to communicate, apologize, and move forward into compassion and forgiveness.  This is hard work.  It is hard to know that the reason your child got into trouble with you, was your fault.

For example

Me: did you finish your milk with your lunch at school today?

Him: I’m not sure

Me: check your lunchbox, please, otherwise the milk will be spoiled by the time we get home tonight.  Milk is expensive and we cannot afford to just let it spoil.

Him: okay, Mommy.  Whoops!  I did not drink my milk

Me: drink it right now

Him: okay

 

This is not the first scenario of this kind, which is why I ask him to check his lunchbox immediately after school.

Later that evening, I rush to empty his lunchbox as he rushes into the shower because we are home so late from after school activities (argh!).

Inside his lunchbox is a ½ full container of milk.

Holy Freaking Moses – I am ticked off

 

Me:  I am throwing away the milk you said that you were drinking.  I am throwing away our money (full-on angry tired mommy voice)

Him: I was confused and I forgot and I thought that I drank my milk.

Me:  You were not confused, you did not forget and you did not think that you drank your milk.  What you are doing is called lying.  What you are doing is being wasteful of food and money.  What you are doing is being disrespectful. (still angry tired mommy voice)

Him: Oh.  I’m sorry, Mommy.  I did not know.

Me:  You did know and you are sorry that you are in trouble. Mommy is not going to put milk into your lunchbox anymore.  Do you understand what I am saying to you?

Him: Yes, Mommy (super sad, worried and tired boy, walks away to bed)

 

Sometime in the night, I awaken, thinking about the milk in the lunchbox.

I give him full-fat heavy-duty organic high caloric goats milk in his lunch because he needs the fat and calories.  I begin to scramble my brain for what I have in the house that I can put into his lunch, that will provide him with those good fats and calories.  As I am working through resolving that issue, I think about bringing the milk after school, in the car for him to drink, instead of packing the milk.

 

That’s when I remember what was happening in the car the day before,

when I asked him to check his lunchbox.

 

Because of the inane timing and ridiculous bureaucratic restrictions on pick-up from the school, on that day of the week, not only are we in a rush to a sport class, but LittleMr also has to use his amazing flexible powers to change into his sport uniform, while buckled in the car as I drive. Even his pants.

EVEN HIS PANTS, people!!!  And he does it with unexplainable skill and finesse.

 

I remembered my rushed reminder to LittleMr, to stop what he was doing and to quickly change into his sport uniform, because we were running so late and were almost there.

 

And he did what I asked.

 

He carefully closed the container of milk he was drinking, put it back into his lunchbox, zipped up his lunchbox, and changed his clothes.

 

When we reached his sport activity, he jumped out of the car, ready to participate, and joined his group.

 

He did very well in class.  He always does.

 

I remembered it was my fault that he didn’t finish his milk in the car.

 

I remembered he is overwhelmed

 

I remembered I am overwhelmed

 

I apologized to LittleMr as soon as he awakened, and I gave him so many hugs.

I did not pack milk in his lunchbox.

I am bringing the milk to him afterschool

 

Parenting is hard.

Being an asshat is harder.

 

So, to the dad showing off on his lame hoverboard at the park that told my son to, “go away,” because, “I’m spending time with just my son right now”– f you

 

To the dad who pointedly ignored my bleeding crying son at a mutual friend’s party, when he volunteered to watch over the kids outside (three smaller children had to help my child into the house while you stood there with a blank stare) – f you  Also, everyone sees you shrinking down in your car to smoke pot after you drop your kids off in the morning* – double f you

 

To the male teacher who screamed at my child at his first schooling experience in first grade and told him he was not a reader, did not protect or help him with active bullies who were physically and emotionally hurting him – f you

 

To his own father who constantly berated him, threatened to leave him, told him he could never spend time with him again, called him a “giant pain in my neck” “your mother’s spawn” “brat, stupid, dumb” – f you

 

To all narrow-minded selfish people – f you

 

We are all struggling, I recognize that. 

It is difficult for me to recognize the struggles of people who are hurting my child.

Including myself.

 

*sigh*

At least I get the opportunity to recognize, apologize and move forward in my relationship with LittleMr.

Parenting is hard.

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

*not judging the use of pot, judging the smugness of doing it while driving around a school

Room 703

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In June of 2014, I began seeing a therapist.  She is now retired.  She is a lovely person, and I miss her understanding.

 

As I am without insurance and unemployed, I gots ta figure dis out on me own, matey (argh!), for the time being (as you may have gleaned from prior posts).

 

She once asked me to make a list of what I wanted for myself.  Not for my sweet little MrBearwhois8, but just for me.  I still have that list in my fancy, almost empty, journal.  Here is what I was able to pull out of my brain and put on the list:

 

I would like to eat a meal without my stomach hurting.

 

Fast forward to April 2016, and a sweet woman that I know (professional life coach) offered me a step towards self-guidance by suggesting that I write down everything I am good at, no matter how menial (“even if it’s wiping baby’s dirty bottoms” said she).  I still have that list in my fancy, almost empty, journal.  Here is what I was able to put on that list:

 

I am really good at letting my son know and feel how much he is loved.

 

It’s so strange to reflect on this, because I am a HUGE list maker.  In the past, I made lists all of the time.  List-making relaxes me and allows for comfortable brain space relief.

 

I am the person who makes lists of what to pack, what has been packed, labels all of the bags, and carries the list just in case the suitcase goes missing.  It is my way and it has worked for me.

What kinds of lists do you make?

 

Now my brain has been ptsd kerfuffled, and I am re-learning it’s parameters and myself.

 

I am determined to allow myself to make lists again.  Pinteresting lists, notepad lists, room-by-room spreadsheet lists.

 

If you don’t hear from me in two weeks,

I’ll be at the Nationale Hotel in Mexico City, Room 703!

( Victor Velasco)

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

Welcome to My House

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Open up the champagne, pop!
It’s my house, come on, turn it up

 It’s okay to nod your head to Flo Rida

 

In speaking with a friend today, I realized that we all live in our own little houses of logic.

 

While our logic may seem natural, sound and accepted truths among our like-minded peoples, it can be supremely difficult when your house of logic is trashed to bits by people with different values, beliefs, logics.  Especially when those people are involved with deciding your, or children’s, safety and future (lawyers, social workers etc).

 

You can swing the doors to your house of logic wide open, offer the best snacks, drinks, entertainment, hospitality etc, and throw in swag bags to boot.

The hardest part is figuring out how to get

those people who are not willing to step inside your house of logic,

to just take that first step inside.

It feels like if you can entice them to get one foot over the threshold, they would totally see, understand, believe in, and champion your logic.

 

Unfortunately, lawyers, social workers, judges, therapists, etc are all paid handsomely to stay out of your house of logic. No matter how compelling it is to them personally, they will avoid going inside.  They are there to see the larger world around your house of logic, and make the best decisions they can, within the confines of the law and their professional ethics.

 Despite all of this,

I encourage you all to be brave

and continue to stack up all of the things you believe are important and true. 

Pile it all up in your house of logic. 

Especially if you are preparing for any legal custody/divorce battle(and it will be a battle – but that’s another post).  Let your trusted professionals guide you as to what they can use or not use to help you. Even when you do not believe them, TRUST THEM.

Keep your house of logic for you and as you need it to be.

Keep opening those wide doors

and providing the tasty enticements

until someone threads out the useful bits for you. 

 

I am rooting for you from over here in my little house of logic too!

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

Inspiration

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I am reading all of these lovely inspirational, moving, deeply thought, resonating articles and books from lovely empathetic/sympathetic peoples.

 

I’m just not there yet, y’all.

I feel that you want me to be there. 

Believe me, I WANT me to be there. 

 

The best I can hope for today, is that I have trudged through the deepest muck of MrexH situation, and am passing through the bit of squashy junk before emerging out.

 

Also, I hope that I have some sturdy boots on.  I can’t even tell if I do or not.

 

It’s also okay if I have on an off-white trench coat, which is so gunked up from the muck, that it has frayed at the bottom.  Uh-oh, now I’m picturing an old-timey leather car-driving cap and ridiculous goggles as well.

 

It occurs to me that I should reconsider finding a new therapist to speak with and work through some of the emergence from muck. The screaming in my head might be a big clue for me…

 

I am really not interested in going through my back-story with another person, though.  I have told this tale over and over and over and over and over and over and well, over and over

 

Can you give a therapist a document dump, or at least Cliffs notes, to avoid speaking those words again?!!?

 

I just want to walk in, have a gentle greeting, and listen to sage advice from someone who knows stuff and can see me enough to help me reveal myself to myself.

 

I can pay them in tea, blueberry zucchini brownies, and a hearty companion for The Philadelphia Story viewing.

 

Meet me at the corner of close and soon, wise sage!

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

Super Anxiety Powers

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I am currently in the throws of experiencing the strength of my own Super Anxiety Powers.  I am unable to pinpoint the specific origin this time.  Somehow I feel that if I could define the cause, I could zero in with some laser precision and knock it out.

 

Power and control, baby

A dangerous illusion, I know

 

I’m not sure how anyone else’s anxiety takes over their being, but mine has such a grip on me right now, that I am finding it difficult to control my fingers and hands as I type this.

 

My Super Anxiety begins with an overwhelming feeling in my stomach gut, which then travels outwards through my body. The feeling is very intense through my thighs and up to my chest regions.

Perhaps not unlike butterflies on cocaine… 

super intense tainted death cocaine, I think.

 

Once it hits my heart region, I can hear every sound every piece of my heart arteries and valves make.  This is so overwhelming and intense in my eardrums, that it feels as if my heart is going to explode out through my ears.

 

Sometimes I can take a few naproxen sodium (like Aleve) to bring the intensity down to a manageable level.  Sometimes soothing hot tea brings it in check.  Sometimes playing a mindless computer game and taking a rest, does the trick.  I have been trying all of these, and my Super Anxiety Power is all ‘honey badger don’t care’ on me.

 

I had to stay perfectly prone and still for 10 minutes the other day

in order to just make some muffins.

Muffins, that’s all

Not even scary muffins, just muffins for my sweet puffin muffin bear boy to eat

because that is what he had requested

 

I am currently in the naproxen/hot tea and rest mode – yet, still experiencing barely controlled Super Anxiety Powers.

 

Over the past few days, I have heard myself screaming over and over in my head, kind of like a waking nightmare with blood curdling screams.  It has been so bad that at least twice I have had to look carefully around to see if I was screaming out loud or if it was just in my head.  So far, it has been my imagination (knocks on wood and crosses all fingers and toes).

 

I am wondering if this is my brain waking up from some of the protective numbness or disassociation from my experiences these past few years.

 

Regardless, I have to keep working on figuring out how to cope, manage and take responsibility for this Super Anxiety Power so that I can keep Mr8 and myself healthy and safe.

 

Here’s to the hope that my Super Anxiety Powers can be used for progress!

Tap that SAP

Hold up – that sounds gross

 

I will consult and suggest that this SAP get to work on the basement

 

Love, Ms Herisme xo