Maybe tomorrow...

Tonight I went to an abuse support group.  I am of many minds about it.  I'd give just about anything (save for haven panel fencing to obscure garbage bins) to have access to counseling.  Only I am not really convinced this is the way to go.  It is, essentially a 12-Step program for recovery from abuse, complete with a recitation of the serenity prayer.  It does mention Jesus and not some whatever-is-your-higher-power god, but I don't think recovery from abuse is that simple.   Work the program and you'll get better.

I am disappointed and I am confused.

There are thoughts in my head that I wish I could have help with regard to the sexual abuse, but a large part of what I struggle with has as much to do with being chronically ill as it has to do with that because it has to do with my body.  I mean, some of it is patterns of thought, but some is patterns of physical response that are simply not going to change, such as the infinitesimally small amount of stress or shock or ... startle-ment ... it takes to trigger the fight/flight/freeze response in my body.   The regular, repeated, long-term pattern of dumping cortisol, adrenaline, and norepinephrine have wreaked havoc on my body.

I have gotten much better at managing my body after what I call The Dump.  When that hot flush that spreads out from my chest and sets me to shaking begins, I have learned to focus less on the outer picture and more on the inner.  To work on not despairing over what is happening and simply be in that moment, to try and minimize it.

In a way, it is like the work I have done on my migraines.  Minimize the aftereffects to try and avoid bounce back migraines.  I cannot stop the migraines.  I also cannot stop (well, at least not right now) the fear that overwhelms me with the pain, but even to that I do work:  I repeat over and over, like a litany, two hours.  That's all I have to get through ... two hours until I can take the second dose.

Of course, now, I to deal with the aftereffects of taking the migraine medicine.  It both saves me and fells me.  So, I have this whole approach for dealing with the aftereffects of sumatriptan whilst I am also dealing with the aftereffects of having a migraine.  And, what I am not doing ... what I don't have ... is a way of dealing with the guilt and shame of failing to be a good suffering saint praising and trusting God whilst I am in the midst of all that pain and bodily suffering.

It's exhausting.

I am not sure how to put into words what it is that I know that I need.  I mean, I want to talk about the things that are still secrets in my head and the things society keeps telling me are inappropriate topics.  But I don't want to be working my way down a prescribed road to recovery delineated by completing twelve steps.

I want to talk about my past and the pesky problem of knowing my thoughts are lies and yet still find myself bound by them.
I want to talk about shame and how that affects/interferes with my medical care.
I want to talk about suffering.  Then.  Now.
I want to talk about what I didn't learn as a child and what I still desire even though I am no longer a child.
I want to talk about my father's death.
I want to be seen.  To be heard.

To bolster myself, I wore my GREEN skirt, which I save for special occasions.  When I came home, I sat down to eat a bit and promptly stained it.  Today was disappointing on many fronts.  But tomorrow?  Tomorrow I might have completed fencing and a gravel base for the area to be eventually  covered with paving stones.  Tomorrow, I might have my haven!!

[Gosh, it's hard not to be excited.]