Hiromi_X

While we'll probably never again be blank slates, it's not too late to change even as adults. Old dogs can learn new tricks.

Thanks to Rufus for pointing out this fascinating article. The author, a neuroscientist named Susan Greenfield, discusses how the human brain continuously -- not just in childhood -- remains plastic and changes at the microcellular level in response to experiences and stimuli.

She briefly describes an experiment involving three groups of adults who had never played the piano. One group sat in a room with the piano but had nothing to do with it, a second group was given intensive piano lessons, and the last group was told to imagine themselves going through the piano exercises. The brain scan results? Not surprisingly, the control group (the one that did nothing) showed no changes in their brains. The group that did the piano exercises showed significant structural changes in the parts of their brain that govern finger movements, but most surprisingly of all, the group that imagined playing the piano showed almost as much change in their brains as those who actually played the piano!

Greenfield's article dealt with her worries about the effect of technology and psychoactive drugs on our brains; however, for me, that piano experiment struck another chord: What implications does this have for people like me, people who need to heal from trauma?

Here's another interesting article about "lies" versus what we might call "future truths." In the experiment described in that article, college students were asked about their grades and academic histories. Almost half embellished their records, but instead of becoming tensed and stressed when lying -- which happens to people who are lying in order to cover up crimes, for instance -- they became more relaxed as they lied. To paraphrase the article, this was because their goal was not to deceive; rather, the "lies" can be seen as a statement of aspiration or an attempt to project themselves toward their goals. In earlier studies, the research team found that students who exaggerated their grade point average actually went on to bump up their grades, often by the very amount they exaggerated.

I'll admit that I'm engaging in dubious speculation and making connections that may not be sound. But what I read in those articles resonates so much with my own experience. Imagining things: that's exactly what I had to do to get healthy. I told myself all the good things I wanted to believe about myself, and I acted as though I really believed it. There is a starting point: you, unhappy, feeling broken. Then there's a goal point: you, healed, whole.

How do you bridge those states? How on earth do you get to the goal? There's no map or set of instructions. All you can do, really, is imagine yourself there. In my case, I suddenly, almost magically, found myself there. My old thought habits are greatly diminished, if not totally gone. Granted, the magic was only in hindsight; I did a lot of work, invisible work because it was all in my head.

How the fuck do you change your head, you might ask? Well, it's YOUR damn head! You have a CHOICE.

This fucken works, man. I'm not the same person I used to be. My brain is different. It is absolutely possible to change something as seemingly fundamental as your personality.

Posted by Hiromi at 3:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Despite my apprehensions, I watched The Greatest Silence: Rape in the Congo, a documentary produced by Lisa Jackson, an American woman who was herself gang-raped years ago. I don't want to talk about what the women experienced. Like the filmmaker, I also feel a tie with the women due to the sexual violence in my past, but I don't want to talk about that. All I will say is that those women are fucking Survivors. Jackson showed that. I'm glad. When these war crimes against women are reported in our news, it gets reported as a series of injuries to bodies. But they're more than just bodies. They are remarkable for more than just the violence they experienced. They get much respect from me.

Instead of the women's experiences, which is too much for me to think about, I think about the rapists. Unbelievably, Jackson goes into the jungle to find and interview the rapists. For one of them, the reasons for committing those atrocities goes something like this: "When you've been in the bush too long, you do these things." Or to paraphrase another, "This is happening because of the war. We know they are human. If there was no war, we would treat them normally."

Other reasons were given, including a disturbing belief that raping women somehow, by magic, helps them win. But the two quotes above are things I hear from regular people when they talk about atrocities in general. The idea that if you're a soldier in a war, exposed to unimaginable fear and stress, you might snap and commit these acts. I'm not a soldier. I've never fought in a war; maybe I'm not qualified to say these things. But I don't believe it. Or rather, I don't want to believe it.

The rape of the Congolese women is systematic, as were the countless previous wartime atrocities that scar history. These aren't lone individuals snapping. I don't want to believe atrocities are somehow inevitable in war. I want to believe that if...maybe...

1) Specific rules for ethical conduct are enforced organization-wide, if they are ground into the organization members' heads during training, and if there is tight discipline, and if

2) There is no underlying philosophy like male dominance or racism that encourages people to believe that other human beings are inferior to themselves,

then maybe these won't happen.

I think people do have a natural affinity for each other. I don't believe that there is nothing to survival but fighting and killing. I think atrocities are highly unnatural acts that occur in extreme, unorganized, chaotic, and unnatural situations. I don't think they are inevitable. I don't think we can sigh and say, "Thus are the wages of war."

Maybe that sounds stupid to some people, or contradictory, that there can be moral behavior at all in an immoral situation such as war. I don't think so. I think that there can be rules. I think people can limit and control their actions.

Posted by Hiromi at 6:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (17)

Something happened and I don't feel frivolous anymore. A friend of a friend committed suicide. I don't know the person in question, but it's been greatly on my mind since I found out. I've been thinking about the things you can and can't do to save a person. How sad it is that some people simply can't see how much their presence gives to the world. And seeing the pain that a suicide leaves in its wake, I'm feeling pangs of remorse for the pain I could have caused. At the time I attempted it, I left no note or hint of why. In addition to the pain of loss, there would have been the crushing pain of secrets. For the sake of all those who weren't as lucky as I and didn't make it, I will make the most of what I have. I will give back somehow.

Posted by Hiromi at 10:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Resolutions for 2008: No more self-criticism. I'm not saying one more negative thing about myself. I'm finished with that. I've deconstructed my old self enough already; it's time to build. And no more doomsday scenarios. Everything's going to be okay somehow. I know it.

I can pinpoint the time I came to that realization with a certain amount of precision: Wednesday around 3:30 pm.

On Tuesday, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a while. She told me how happy she was to see me, that others missed me too, and all the good things about me that they missed. And something clicked in my head: Yes. I am those things. The next day, I was telling someone at work, one of those admin people who know absolutely everything, who knows all about who says what to whom and why, about my worries about not getting ahead. She sort of smiled and said, "As highly as the people around here think of you, it would be strange if you didn't."

I was thrilled to hear that, of course. But on the heels of that feeling, I thought, I'm not worthy because people think I'm worthy, people think I'm worthy because I AM worthy.

About a week before either of the above events, I related some painful details about my past to two people. Although I didn't go into exhaustive details, I've never gotten that specific before.

Weeks before that disclosure, I had been acting strangely, getting angry at the drop of a hat.

I think my mind has been preparing itself to let go of things that have ossified over the years, gaining layers of sediment and growing heavier and heavier. Sedimented growths like that are big and ugly from the outside, but if you open them and cut past the growths, you will find the small hurts inside. You can pick them up and let them go.

There have been people telling me all along how wonderful I am. I used to think that these were rare and unusual people, the likes of whom I won't encounter again. Now I see that's not the case; I was simply lucky to meet people who responded to good things in me, and to whom I responded in turn. I know this will happen again and again in the future.

I'm traveling to that place I never thought I'd reach: I think that sometime soon, I will be able to look at the past without regret. I've always said that it's a horrible thing to live in regret. I still think that's true, but not in a self-punishing way. I used to think that the only way to avoid living in regret is to do everything right the first time. Because of that, I spent so much time in my head reliving the past, wishing in vain for a "do-over." Now I know that I can live without regret by learning to accept and let go and fucken look ahead.

The rest of my life is going to be very, very good. Not easy, of course, but good.

Posted by Hiromi at 4:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

One of the gentlest, strongest people I ever met is a woman who was raped about a year and a half ago. Throughout the entire ordeal of recovering from it and going through the trial (the evil bastard was convicted and sent to jail), she was worried most about the effect on her children and on her totally unworthy husband. That asshole kept asking her why she didn't fight back, and when she asked him why he kept pushing her away, he answered "How would you feel if I cheated on you?" Yes. Such assholes exist.

She would cry as she related this and other things. One day, she was talking sadly about how she couldn't bring herself to unpack after a move, a move that was necessary because the rapist googled her and found her address and threatened retaliation against her and her family. Agitated, she complained about not having the energy to do this or that. After listening to this for a while, I looked at her and said, "It sounds like you're angry," and she burst into tears. For whatever reason, she couldn't bring herself to actually express anger. She resisted it her whole life. She didn't fight back when her husband said shitty things to her. She would cry in sadness, but she wouldn't get angry. This fear of expressing anger was causing her to be stuck in the place she was in. She couldn't move forward.

I'm her opposite. I have no trouble getting angry. It's an almost instinctive response. Even as a child, I would break my toys in a fit of anger. I'd regret it of course, but I'd end up doing it again. Over time, I polished my destroying-of-objects technique. I throw things that are unbreakable, cheap, or that I don't care about. I avoid glass and food (I had an awful time once cleaning up the aftereffects of lobbing spaghetti and soy sauce bottles at a wall). I punch relatively forgiving surfaces (e.g., doors). I don't kick things (foot damage can result since I don't wear shoes in the house).

Anyway, I don't think a fiery temper in and of itself is a bad thing, but my anger has gotten worse over time. I was going through my archives the other day, fixing this and that, and came across this post. I cringed as I re-read it. To be fair to myself, I hadn't nearly faced up to the things that were really bothering me back then; that was just where I was in that moment. In the end, however, being so angry flat out doesn't feel good. But I still find that anger is my automatic response to feeling a lack of control or fear. And while I'm getting better at calming down, I'm afraid my anger is causing me to be stuck in the place I am, and maybe preventing me from moving forward.

In that post, I wrote that anger is a good motivator and a natural response to injustice. I still believe that, and would go so far as to say that it's a necessary response to some forms of injustice. But I want to understand why the fuck I get so angry so quickly. My level of anger is such that it's gotta be more than personality and the big traumas, since I was pretty damn angry before that, too.

It's not like I want to be a chirpy motherfucker, though. I want something different. There have been a couple of people in my life who are so warm and calm and self-assured that simply being in their presence feels like a hug. With them, you felt like everything will be all right. That's what I want to be like.

*sigh* More work.

Posted by Hiromi at 1:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

There are some things I don't want to remember. In AA meetings, I avoid speaking to shaky newcomers. I'm happy to share what worked for me during the meeting, but I avoid direct contact. In my sexual assault recovery group, I sometimes dread seeing new people. In both cases, people who are starting out naturally don't have solutions; they come seeking help. But sustained interaction with them means going back to places I have left or am trying to leave. And I just don't want to go back.

There are other times when it's hard to look back. This is a post in dialogue with a post on the Joy Division biopic Control, written by my akaholic brutha Ray. As an angst-ridden teenager, their music gave me melancholy solace. But as an adult, connecting the angst with a concrete story was disconcerting.

I didn't know the details behind the suicide of the lead singer prior to this movie coming out. Of course, I can't relate to the fishbowl of fame or the pressures of fatherhood. While watching, what was most poignant to me was his sense of entrapment. There was a scene where he's fucking his wife and then suddenly, he bursts into agonized sobs and turns away from her, covering his face. When she touches his shoulder, he jerks away. I remember that feeling...Oh, god...am I going to have to fuck this person for the rest of my life? Can I bear this?

I couldn't, but I really wasn't in the mood to think about that during the movie. I started to treat the movie in my mind like a music video.

I watched the pre-suicide encounter scene between Ian and his wife in a detached manner. Here was a man who longer loved his wife, who told her so, who told her he was in love with someone else, yet apparently could not stand the thought of being divorced from her. It's hard to leave, I know; even for me, in my situation, it took years of slowly going insane before I left.

I know I don't have to go back if I don't want to, but sometimes my mind takes me back during my dreams. This week, I had a dream about those "Oh shit" moments alcoholics frequently get in the morning as they wake up and try to piece together the puzzles of the previous night. I woke with a rush of relief, like I walked out of the theatre with a rush of relief.

Posted by Hiromi at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)

One of my deepest, darkest fears is that I'm a fraud. That I'm not as smart as I think I am, or as funny or pretty or lovable...whatever. And people need only stick around long enough to find that out.

I just spent two of the worst weeks of my life on a project for work, and it got a chillier reception than I had hoped for. "Nice try, but here's a list of things you fucked up." There was a tone of impatience with innovations I attempted. I got the feedback sometime after 5 pm today, so I won't be able to clarify things until next week. "Clarify" as in "Do you think I'm stupid?" I'm not afraid of being fired or anything. What I fear is being dismissed as lesser, as someone on whom resources should not be wasted. Being a disappointment.

I know I excel in other things. But this matters to me very much. It's a big thing, bigger than anything I've tried before, and I fell flat on my face.

I'm going to take some ibuprofen and take my loser ass off to bed. Meeting my sponsor in the morning.

Posted by Hiromi at 12:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

News has reached me underneath my rock that it's fashionable to make jokes about cutting as an affectation of self-loathing teenage suburbanites. I'm sure people who tell such jokes do so because they believe they are throwing rocks at self-indulgent poseurs, but I think it's more than that. Who are the ones who tend to cut themselves? Young women and girls. I don't see anything funny in what I perceive as a general tendency to trivialize and devalue the things that young women and girls go through. More significantly, I still have the scars from when I used to do that myself. It annoys me to hear cutting dismissed as empty-headed and melodramatic self-indulgence. I mentioned cutting in previous posts; I will elaborate on my story to counter this scornful trend somewhat.

It was something I did when my usual depression dipped toward suicidal ideation. I first started in my early twenties. Alcohol was involved in my rape. My attackers kept pushing drinks into my hand until I began to waver in and out of consciousness. Off and on in the years afterward, I tried to stop drinking. But when I was unable to stop, I felt worthless. I felt that I was born with something broken and deformed inside, and that made people abuse me. I couldn't get at my deformed and broken essence; that was invisible and incorporeal. However, I could get at it indirectly by destroying its container.

I stopped cutting during my mid-twenties, but started again last spring as the toxic secrets I had accumulated over the years began to overspill their internal bounds. At that time, the cutting episodes were preludes to my attempted suicide. I spent a lot of time doing two things that would erase my presence from the earth: I did a lot of research on suicide methods to find the cleanest, quickest, and most effective ones, and I hacked away at myself bit by bit until the timing was right to destroy myself in one fell swoop. I remember feeling a sense of exhilaration late one night as I went out to buy a packet of double edged razors. I couldn't wait to see the blood flow.

After I survived my overdose, I looked at the tangle of angry red slashes and purple half-healed welts on my body and felt complete shame at what I had done. Someone told me about scar-reducing products that you could get in drugstores, and I used these for a couple of months until the scars faded to fine white lines. I'm still afraid of what people would say if they see these scars. Given my methodical nature, many of the cuts appear in orderly right angles to each other. They have an unmistakably deliberate look.

I have permanent reminders of my insanity engraved into my body. I wonder where the comedic potential is in that. When I express fear of what others might think, I am encouraged to dismiss condemnation as ignorance and stupidity. "Fuck 'em." I fully agree with the logic behind this sentiment, and I advise others who express similar concerns to do the same. But given the number and variety of my crazinesses, how many people am I going to have to write off? How many times am I going to have to say, "Fuck 'em"? It does not feel good to come to like someone, and, should that person prove judgmental, be forced into the position of writing him or her off.

Posted by Hiromi at 6:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

I don't tend to watch porn because a lot of it is silly, formulaic, or badly produced. And I don't have the time or patience to sift through a lot of bad porn to find the good. Honestly, there are times when I wouldn't mind watching some hot (figurative) monkey sex, but I can't be arsed to hunt down the good stuff. So I go without.

I say all this to establish my credentials as open-minded and non-hostile toward porn because I'm going to talk about something I'm not comfortable with sharing, but it was making my day perfectly miserable. I've been reading, writing, and running around feverishly today, trying not to think about this. I haven't mentioned this to my therapist. It's strangely embarassing and difficult to talk about. The Ex had...well...exotic tastes in porn. In terms of videos, books, manga, whatever. He'd make me look at this stuff. And it was lying around all over the place.

[...]

I just typed up a long paragraph describing some of the stuff, but I had to delete it. I deleted it because had he beaten me, would I write detailed accounts of the beatings? No, I wouldn't think it necessary. I draw a parallel between being hit and being made to look at stuff that I said frightened and disgusted me. I keep needing to say that, that I said no in some form or other. I feel a little silly saying that these things are to me like little wounds.

Is it possible to be assaulted by images? People weren't being forced to do the things they were doing in those things I saw. The acts in those images were consensual. But it wasn't simply a matter of me shrugging, saying It's Not for Me, and then looking away. It was like he was trying to brainwash me. Those images penetrated and diffused into my reality. They became part of the air I breathed. And I was afraid they'd become my reality. A little bit before I put an end to the mind games and manipulations, he became fixated on something truly repugnant to me.

In my desire for something to distract me, I thought I might ditch work and go see a movie. I looked at movie listings and saw that Eastern Promises got good ratings, but when I read the review, I thought it would be a bad idea. It's not pornographic, but it's dark. I'm through with exploring darkness. I've been there; I don't need any missives from there.

Posted by Hiromi at 1:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

I had a long hard slog over the weekend to meet a deadline yesterday. My brain is sort of exposed and quivering today. Like a blob of jelly dropped from a PB&J melting on a countertop. Or something.

Instead of being able to peacefully stare off into space, I'm getting more than my fair share of intrusive thoughts today -- Greatest Traumatic Hits from Hiromi's Past. Every ugly memory, frequently embellished with unrelated ugliness, keeps parading through my mind. And I can't stop making lousy metaphors.

The only way to put a stop to this is to simply think of something else. There's really nothing else you can do. But given my mental exhaustion, I'll try to go somewhere else, but the memories keep pulling me back.

So, preeze do me a favor and relate an anecdote. Doesn't matter how mundane it is -- safe, wholesome mundaneness is good. Or a joke. Something.

Posted by Hiromi at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

I've always hated that term "closure" when used in terms of human relationships. I used to feel exasperated when hearing girlfriends use that term as justification to continue to beat the dead horse of a failed relationship. When I ask why they kept on contacting their ex, a common response was "I need closure."* On the other hand, I always just cut off the other person after a breakup. Just cut the motherfucker off!

That was the strategy I followed regarding The Ex. I contacted him only for various unavoidable post-marriage cleanup operations involving title transfers of cars, taxes, court fees, and the like. The Ex, on the other hand, sent me a New Year's card expressing a wish that I find happiness in the future. And in an email exchange over unfinished marriage bidness, he stated something to the effect of:

"I'm ashamed I wasn't the husband you deserved. I hope I have shown some sincerity since then so that I'm no longer a monster in your eyes or mine."

I felt a mixture of sadness and anger when I read that. I don't doubt that he's honestly ashamed and remorseful, and for whatever reason I don't wish him eternal unhappiness or misfortune or mental agony. However, I felt angry that he asked me for absolution. In the book Lucky, Alice Sebold wrote about her feelings when her attacker told her "I'm sorry":

I've always hated it in movies and plays, the woman who is ripped open by violence and then asked to parcel out redemption for the rest of her life.

How dare he ask for redemption from me? While he might think otherwise, his expression of "sincerity" was yet another demand of me, that I reassure him that he's not a monster. Me, reassure him! He could only ever take from me. It's one thing for me to refrain from wishing for vengeance in the form of psychic pain on him, and another to "forgive" him. I hate that word, too. No, I hate it most of all. He harmed me, and nothing he says or does now will change that. If his actions make him a monster in his own mind, that's his shit to deal with. He wasn't honestly making amends when he wrote that to me. If he truly wanted to make amends, he'd take responsibility for what happened and leave me the fuck alone.

However, a nagging question remains for me: Has he really and truly taken responsibility? Is he actively trying to change, undergoing psychotherapy or something? Is he fixing himself, in other words? A part of me wants to know. For the majority of the time, I just want to move forward with life and concentrate on my own happiness. I rarely think of him, actually. But I'd get some...closure...out of knowing that he's trying to face up to his responbility. During our two joint couseling sessions prior to the divorce, he assigned 50/50 responsibility for the abuse. He said that by not leaving and "smiling at him," I contributed to my own abuse. I allowed it, in other words. A part of me wants to know if he's accepted ALL responsibility, and is trying to fix himself.

For two weeks now, I've avoided sending him an email asking whether he's doing that. Talking with him would be distasteful; I don't want his voice in my head. I can't imagine anything more unpleasant than being drawn into conversation about our past with him. So I won't ask him about it, for now at least. But despite myself, I feel that somehow justice will be served if he could only try to fix himself.

Posted by Hiromi at 4:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

The single greatest achievement of my life is this: being alive. And whole. A year ago today I tried to kill myself. I deliberately overdosed.

For so long, I thought I was born broken. But I understand now. The things that happened to me -- they didn't make me dirty, nor did I deserve them. Now I know how much strength it takes to survive and to become whole. I wish I could fully explain what it means to me that I can say, I don't hate myself. I don't wish I were someone else; I don't want another life. I want my life. I wish I could make you see how wonderful it feels to finally cry happy tears, and to let go of crippling regrets.

I'm home alone, but not alone. I have me.

Posted by Hiromi at 12:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

This morning, I was idly folding laundry and going over my schedule for the week. At one point I thought, "I'm going to that meeting. Oh wait, I can't, that guy hit on me and I don't want to deal with it."

Suddenly, a huge wave of fury surged through me. I had talked to this guy before, and a couple weeks ago, after the meeting, he came up to talk to me. I was talking to someone else and had my back turned to him, so he got my attention by putting his hands on my shoulders and running them down to my elbows. I didn't like that at all. Nevertheless, I talked to him.

This morning, I felt two things: 1) A desire to commit grievous bodily harm to that guy. Consider my personal history and the role that men played in it. The last fucking thing I want is that kind of unwelcome attention from men. 2) Anger at myself for "being a victim."

After I seethed for a while, I decided to not even think about the guy or his motives. Who knows why he did that. Maybe he's a creep, maybe not. That's beside the point. The point is ME, and making MYSELF feel safe.

I also realized that I have no need to be angry at myself. When humans feel threatened, there are three instinctive reactions: fight, freeze, or flee. At the time, I felt threatened, so I froze. Later, when feeling threatened again by thinking about the incident, I instinctively decided to flee. This isn't any sort of "victim mentality." It's human nature. Furthermore, in battle, retreat is a perfectly valid strategy depending on the situation. But I have a choice -- I can choose to continue to flee, which is FINE if that's what I need. Or, I can deal with it directly in a way that allows me to continue going to that meeting, if that's what I want.

So I choose to stop being angry about it and think of a solution. First, if the person is coming right at me, I'll gracefully avoid contact. If they touch me anyway and I don't like it, I will say without being either apologetic or rude, I don't want to be touched. I don't give a fuck how they react or feel about it. It's my body and my space, and I will defend them.

Posted by Hiromi at 1:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Here are the things that I sometimes hate my parents for:

1. The biggest. Ever since I was very young, I would have asthma attacks about twice a year. I knew when they would begin -- I would feel this incredible dread as I got an itchy feeling in my chest. I knew that my breathing would get more and more constricted, as if the tissue in my lungs were slowly ossifying. The next two days would be agony as I used all the muscles in my torso to squeeze air in and out. After that, the grey, hard tissues in my lungs would become gradually more elastic until they again became pink tissue. Then months later they would ossify again. My parents did not take me to the hospital for this until I was 12. I wanted them to see that I was suffering and help me.

2. They never took me to swimming lessons. When I was in high school, I signed up for lessons myself, and drove to them myself. My two older sisters were taken to swimming lessons.

3. They never taught me to ride a bicycle. Again, I was treated differently here. I learned as an adult.

4. They bought my two older sisters cars. I bought my first car myself.

5. They never told me I was pretty or smart. My oldest sister was the smart and pretty one.

6. They didn't give me enough guidance in life. I spent so much of my life bewildered. I never knew what to do.

I've been mourning the childhood I never had for a long time. I wanted these things so much, and not having them hurt. A lot. I want to stop hurting, and I want to forgive my parents because I love them more than anything.

Posted by Hiromi at 10:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Somehow, on the road to recovery, I haven't picked up much compassion. I don't know how much I can give back to other alcoholics. I've just now gotten up the nerve to share my experiences and thoughts in meetings once in a while, but I am not willing to go any farther than that. Other freshly sober drunks scare the crap out of me. One was contemplating swallowing a bottle of pills to escape a life she couldn't control. Another sobbed after a spectacular relapse. They're desperate and afraid, and I feel like clutching my sobriety to my chest and running in the opposite direction.

I'm not sure what this feeling is. I don't think it's necessary that I volunteer my time and energy to these people, so don't tell me not to feel guilty. I'm not beating myself up for not being some kind of den mother to drunks, nor am I going to tax my strength doing things I'm doubtful of. I'm simply wondering how much of my old attitude of "You're not going to drag me down" lingers.

I had two very good friends, both of whom were troubled. One of them went back to a husband who I thought was unstable (but not abusive), and I couldn't hang around her anymore. The other was someone who made me laugh harder than anyone I had met before. She also knew all my dirty secrets, but loved me anyway. But as the years went by, she got more and more depressed and angry and continued to make bad decisions. She'd then relate all the gory consequences to me. This happened over and over. At one point, she was hospitalized for depression and I just could not be there for her anymore. I dropped her like a hot potato.

I miss her, or at least I miss the good times. I understand that when helping someone hurts you, you have to make a decision to leave that person. You don't need to sacrifice yourself. You have to make a decision to save yourself. I call it the "oxygen mask" rule -- on an airplane, you always put on your mask first before helping others. You don't put masks on other people until you yourself die from lack of oxygen.

I know and understand that. But I also think of my own situation; what if I had been left? I did not do this alone. It's no use speculating what would have happened had I done it on my own. That can never be known. But I *do* know that I was helped and guided. What if the choice had been to bail out on me?

I understand that I'm not ready to help other drunks one-on-one. No one with any brains would condemn me for that.

Maybe I'm preoccupied with this because it meshes with my old convictions that I must be worthy of the sacrifices of others. I think I'm worthy in and of myself, but I still fear that others don't truly see this. So I go around thinking I must somehow earn my keep as a human being. Someone told me that my mere presence at meetings helps other people. The wise Miz Syl also said something similar, as did others who own a great deal of real estate in my heart.

At some point, I need to forgive myself for having left others to save myself. And believe I was worth saving.

Posted by Hiromi at 11:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

I had The Craving today after work, but messed up and instead of my usual got vanilla, chocolate chip, marshmallow, and hot fudge. I decided for once and for all that I don't like large chocolate chunks in my ice cream -- chocolate isn't good unless it can melt in your mouth. Ice cold chocolate doesn't do that. These things matter. And I prefer butterscotch over hot fudge.

While morosely eating my substandard combo of ice cream and crush'n's, I eavesdropped on the young couple next to me -- college students. They were talking about being apart for the summer. They certainly weren't deep or poetic; they used those annoying inflections and phrases endemic among those between 12 and 22. But after listening to them for a while, I couldn't eat my ice cream for the lump in my throat.

It wasn't their words, it was the sweet simple faith that they would think of each other always, that they would mutually pine away until they could each see other again in the fall. And when they would see each other again, they would be propelled forward together, and great things would of course happen, and they would experience these great things together. In between their silly jokes and corny talk, they kept glancing into each other's eyes and brushing each other's hands while they fiddled with their empty ice cream cups and spoons. Those glances and touches provided the depth and poetry to their words.

Several months ago, I would have become depressed at my exclusion from happy couplehood. Instead, I realized that the things I attributed to them -- a special kind of openness, hope, and faith -- are things I associate with young people. There was a summer in college, before bad things happened, when I was happy and confident and felt like there was nothing except bright vistas and possibilities in front of me. That was the last time I was young. Sitting in that ice cream shop, I realized I am young again. Unlike the young couple, I didn't have an equally youthful person sitting right next to me to share that with, but that didn't make me less happy to realize I've come full circle. I lost my youth, and spent years feeling lost and trapped, but now I've regained all that I've lost and more.

Posted by Hiromi at 10:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

I've got this talent for finding the black cloud in the silver lining. Sure, there's something deeply soul-satisfying about being around People Who Get It. You don't have to explain yourself or defend yourself. You're accepted.

That being said, time and again, even as other addicts or survivors validate my experiences and comfort me with the knowledge that I'm not alone, I sometimes miss being "alone." I'm not saying this is the most productive way to think about things, but I sometimes feel resentment when people say, "Oh yeah, that happened to me, too." I feel somehow...coopted. NO, I think, I'm SPECIAL. Which reminds me of something I used to always say before: "No one understands me."

That's what we in AA call "terminal uniqueness." Let's unpack that statement. It does a lot of things:

1) The speaker is singling him or herself out as separate from the rest of humanity.
2) While that's a statement of abjection,
3) It's also a self-aggrandizing one: "No ne understands me. Because I'm special. I'm unique. I'm singular in my special uniqueness. I'm beyond the ability of others to understand."

In saying that, you push away people who actually do understand you, and who can support you and help you. In return, you get the cold comfort of sitting on the throne of your own terminal uniqueness.

So...yeah. As I cry on your shoulder, tell me you understand, but also tell me I'm special. ;p

Posted by Hiromi at 10:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

I read everyone's comments, and I've been thinking about the issue for a while. The badly-phrased question I posed was, "How much should we accommodate the rehabilitation of these criminals?" I think I should clarify a few concepts. A few kinds of people came up in comments (and in my own thoughts):

1. People that society treats as pariahs for no good reason; e.g., people with AIDS (Tina, I'm so sorry that happened to your family)
2. People who have a mental condition (alcoholics)
3. People who have hurt others by mistake or out of ignorance
4. People who have hurt others because of their own emotional or behavioral issues; in other words, no malicious intent
5. People who know what they're doing hurts people, but don't care

Out of the above list, society has no good reason to shun people in category #1. As for categories 2-5, there are two further issues:

1. How serious is the action?
2. How frequently does it occur?
3. Does the person recognize what they're doing and try to get better?

People who have a mental condition (alcoholics)

Since I'm talking about predators, I'll treat this as separate and not deal with it. I'm not a mental health professional, so I don't feel like arguing over whether abusers are mentally ill. For the purposes of this post, I'm assuming they aren't.

People who have hurt others by mistake or out of ignorance

I totally have no problem saying society should accommodate their rehabilitation.

These two I will talk about together: People who have hurt others because of their own emotional or behavioral issues; in other words, no malicious intent and People who know what they're doing hurts people, but don't care.

...

Suddenly, I've run out of steam. I had it all analyzed in my head, but now I'm too worn out to talk about it. This issue is entirely personal, and I'm sick of talking about it in a generalized way.

How do I feel about my attackers? They're sociopaths or psychopaths; take your pick. They planned the whole thing. They chose a victim. Then, they lied about what happened. They made it sound like we were "partying." They *knew* what they were doing was wrong, but they didn't care. In fact, they thought it was great. They thought it was a big joke. My definition of evil. They can't be fixed.

How do I feel about the ex? I feel that he hurt me because of emotional and mental problems. However, what he did to me was frequent and serious, and he had to know it was hurting me. I said I didn't like it. I asked him to stop. It wasn't until I threatened to leave that he stopped, because he was scared I'd leave. However, after I overdosed, he was genuinely contrite. I think that if he put his mind to it, he can get better.

That's all I can handle talking about for now.

Posted by Hiromi at 9:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

My sponsor once told me something that really disturbed me. She said that while it's common for women in AA to have experienced sexual assault or sexual abuse, there's a flipside: among the men in AA, there are men who have committed those very acts. I must make the disclaimer that perpetrators aren't as common among the men as victims are common among women; they're a minority in any male population. But odds are if I go to a meeting, there might be a couple perps sitting in the same room. And this frankly gives me the creeps.

This article appeared today in the NY Times, about a child molester joining a Christian church that made a point to welcome all comers. The guy made a point to tell the congregation beforehand; he isn't hiding who he is. He isn't going to prey on those children, and the congregation can also keep an eye on him as they are helping to reintegrate him into society. However, in addition to the fears of parents in the church, there are the feelings of former victims of childhood abuse to consider; how would they feel knowing that their church openly embraces this perpetrator?

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I don't believe in simply killing undesirables, and most perps don't commit crimes heinous enough to keep them behind bars for the rest of their lives. Therefore, I'd have to agree that they must be rehabilitated. This means reintegrating them into society. But I don't like the idea of sharing the same room or meeting with a rapist or abuser. If I knew such a person were going be be somewhere, I'd avoid that place. But on the other hand, is it reasonable to require male AA members who may have committed such crimes to disclose such information? I guess I could go to women's only meetings...I don't know. How much should we accommodate the rehabilitation of these criminals?

Posted by Hiromi at 10:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Indulge me while I continue my retrospective prior to picking up my gestation chip.

I really want people to know that life is...I was going to say "fixable," but that isn't right. It's changeable. It's improveable.

Nights were hard for months following my overdose. They're hard to describe now; I didn't know where the pain was coming from, but it was like birds of prey were swooping down on me and tearing my flesh. The world was so...shadowy.

I'm not saying life is easy now. It's hard, it's painful, it often sucks. But I learned that

I can be happy without worrying I'll never be happy again.
I can be sad and it won't kill me.
I can hurt, but the hurt will end.
If I hurt in the future, I can survive it.

For the past month or so, I've been sort of concerned that maybe this state of mind is just a "pink cloud" sort of thing. In AA, newbies typically are in a state of euphoria after having survived bottoming out and being converted to sobriety. Or maybe I'm manic, and like all "mentally ill" people, don't realize it. But as the days go by, I'm certain that this is a fundamental change for the better, so I'm not going to worry whether this feeling lasts, I'm just going to enjoy it.

Posted by Hiromi at 9:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Let's see...My last emotional crisis was from February 6-9. Before that, it was the week before Xmas, and before that, the Thanksgiving holidays. During the November and December crises, suicidal thoughts flitted through my brain, but in February, they didn't. Since the February crisis, I've felt strangely happy and serene. In its aftermath, I learned that I can survive pain. This is a strange thing to say, but I can put a date on when I made a subconscious decision to live: February 2007. Before that, I couldn't have said for certain that I would live. After my overdose, for months, I'd been waiting for the thing that would kill me to happen. But in February, I decided that somehow, things will turn out okay. And the fact that life might be hard or painful doesn't seem so horribly daunting or frightening anymore. I can handle it. I want to handle it.

This moment didn't come out of the blue like some divine gift. I did the work, hard ass motherfucken work. I changed my behaviors and responses to emotion. I have greater control over my thought processes. This, I suppose, is the "spiritual awakening" AA people go on about. It's not a God thing; it's a fundamental transformation of self. I have a -- I never thought I'd catch myself saying this -- positive outlook on life. But this is in the most non-cliche way possible, for gaining this state of mind has been a matter of life or death. You know how in corny TV dramas, doctors will tell patients, "You're going to live"? Well it seems I fucken told myself that.

I know I will stumble time and again, but now, the thought of falling down doesn't scare the shit out of me. The thought of getting up time and again no longer drains the life out of me, 'cause every time I've fallen flat on my face so far, I've gotten up better and more fabulous than ever.

Posted by Hiromi at 11:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

I know we can't control our dreaming selves, and I don't think it's necessary to agonize over how to analyze dreams. But having said that, I had a dream last night that made me feel completely icky afterwards. For some reason, the following is very hard to admit, even to myself. Prior to the assault, I had an enormous crush on one of the perps. We had slept together, but he lost interest in the relationship, and we drifted apart. In the meantime, I had flirted with two of his friends, who were very attractive, on a number of occasions. [Update: In the spirit of full disclosure, I had a snog with one of them once at a party]. And so I was flattered that they wanted to hang out with me. So much so that I ignored alarms that were going off in my head.

Last night, I dreamed that me and one of them were snuggling under blankets. Just snuggling, cuddling, and watching a movie. He was playing with my hair and stroking my back and telling me how wonderful I was. In the dream, I was so happy, and...flattered. Maybe grateful? I've been trying to shove the memory of that dream out of my head ever since.

Posted by Hiromi at 1:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Being the sort of person who takes things like personality or intelligence tests in order to find "objective" evidence of my own fabulousness, I went to the bookstore yesterday to check out post-traumatic growth (PTG) in the hopes of confirming that recovery makes me thpecial. I heard about PTG while checking out reviews of books that Chris recommended in his comment (#16) on my Justice post. I skimmed the chapter on post-traumatic growth (PTG) in the Haidt book he mentioned (thanks, Chris, for the recommend).

PTG is basically positive life-change as an outcome of trauma. Being an academic geek at heart, I'm not quite sure exactly where the "so what?" factor lies in terms of this being a growing field in psychology. How much of it is new, I don't know. But from what I've seen, old information seems to be resynthesized in a new way in this field. The chapter went well beyond cliche derivations of "what does not kill me makes me stronger," and it was of course far more clever and well-researched than run-of-the-mill self-help books. Haidt made some interesting points on overprotecting kids, and remarked that in our comfortable affluent society, our expectations of happiness are so high, and experience of actual hardship so low, that we end up suing each other for "emotional damages." More importantly, he talks about how it is that some people experience growth while others do not. Two things stuck out for me: the importance of "sense-making" in terms of framing the trauma as a growth narrative that you incorporate into your life, and the importance of putting the trauma into actual words.

I saw my therapist yesterday, for the first time since December 1. We talked about getting off my meds, and in the process, we re-capped my mental health history. It's always eye-opening to talk about my history with other people who know me well; all of them keep telling me how much progress I've made. It also helps to hear them talk about how I was prior to last July -- it's amazing how much of my craziness I took for granted as sanity.

In any case, during my therapy session, I saw how my sense-making has changed since I was 19, my age during the first trauma. Since then, I've explained my environment in terms of immutable personal characteristics. I thought this for years. But it's never too late to change, I've found. Even after all those years, something inside me woke up. Even better, I didn't simply return to how I was before the traumas; rather, I realize I'm much stronger and healthier than I ever have been. I was afraid to live even before it all happened, but now I don't want to run and hide from life. I don't feel as lost, and I'm learning what's really important to me. So...there you go. It took going to hell for me to learn how to be happy.

Posted by Hiromi at 1:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

For months now, I've been struggling with the temptation to email the ex and ask if he's in therapy, and if he's not, to push him to go. Dishonesty isn't amongst his numerous faults, and I know that if he were in therapy, he'd have to tell his therapist about our marriage.

It's the only way I can think of in which justice can be served. Last week in my support group, a woman said she heard that her ex-husband, who was very similiar to mine, was doing really well. He was in a new relationship and was expecting a child, while she was still trying to piece together the life that he shattered. Then, the other day, I read this post by Nadia, and it's been on my mind ever since.

The sense of wrong that all three of us feel is not the sense of vengefulness felt by a spurned lover or some other such petty feeling. Some people might suggest that legal action is an option. In my case, I don't see how that's possible. How do you prove marital rape? Is emotional abuse even a crime? And even if the thought of bringing a civil suit didn't make me shudder, there's no way I can pay for such a thing.

If I were religious, I might be comforted by the notion that the ex is going to hell, or that there will be an enormous karmic payback, if not in this life than in the next, when hopefully he'll be reborn as a hog in a factory farm. Unfortunately, I call atheism my "religious orientation" for a reason. I'm simply incapable of that kind of belief. I've been a doubter for as long as I can remember.

How do you move on, knowing that while you unwillingly relive your torment time and again, your tormentor moves freely in the world without such burdens? Knowing that while you lie awake at night, your tormentor sleeps peacefully? I'm not going to fool myself into thinking that the ex is losing any sleep over this. In all our brief exchanges, I was left with the feeling that he feels himself to be the victim. I have no desire to pepper him with descriptions of my own suffering and demands for reparations. At least I can take some bitter comfort in salvaging some dignity if nothing else.

I hate it when cliches remain my only resort: Living Well is the Best Revenge. And everyone tells me that I shouldn't let him have any power over me anymore. I don't know. I thought I could accept the idea that the world isn't a neat and tidy place and good people suffer horribly for no reason or purpose at all. A woman in AA that I admire very much said that for many years, she felt a palpable sense of shame over things that happened to her, as if she were covered with a black filthy goo. She then said that over the years, she was able to use her experience to help other women heal. While I admire her very much for her ability to help other women, deep down, there is the bitterness that other victims should exist at all.

Posted by Hiromi at 11:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (25)

You'd think, from my post below, that I have non-materialistic views on what constitutes a good life, and that I don't give a damn about social conventions. All that is true. I also place a great deal of importance on life as a learning experience: I have not only survived some crazy shit, but I think I've grown from it. Gained wisdom even.

The funny thing is, what I'm most ashamed of about my life contradicts all that. I'm ashamed that I didn't lead a fuller life. That knowledge is particularly hard because I had the potential to live a kind of life that I value. I went to a very prestigious university. I was bright and talented. But I was so afraid of living that I spent most of my twenties in hiding. I drifted from place to place, from job to job. It wasn't like I was writing a novel at night or anything, I was simply terrified of putting myself out there and taking risks. It's not just that I didn't build up a splendid resume; I didn't live at all. I wasn't drifting in order to discover myself. It wasn't like I got pregnant and raised a child, a task that I think is productive and important. And I spent much of that time wishing I'd done things differently. I was avoiding life, and despite myself, I find that contemptible.

There are also practical considerations. That prestigious university wasn't cheap, and because of my sketchy work history, I've barely made a dent in the debt. So here I am, with a med-school sized debt load at the end of no life at all. Not only does that endanger my future financial security, who's going to want to marry someone with an enormous financial weight shackled to one foot, and a Samsonite factory's worth of personal baggage shackled to the other?

Whew! That is my greatest shame, and my biggest worries for the future. Even more than having been a drunk or having experienced sexual trauma, that's what I hate talking about the most. I didn't choose to be born a drunk or to be traumatized, but I did choose to live the way that I did. I'm aware that my feelings aren't necessarily rational or fair. Rather, I learned from experience that it's important to speak. Often, a wonderful alchemy occurs when you voice your secrets -- what was huge in your head shrinks to manageable size when said out loud. Or at least it serves as the beginning of a solution.

Posted by Hiromi at 1:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

There was this poem I read in high school about Ulysses in retirement, home after his adventures and bored to death. After you're done with your quest, what the fuck are you supposed to do? I Survived. The Worst is Over. I've Chosen Life, and I'm bored to death.

I want to run away to Cambodia. Places like Cambodia are filled with First Worlders who cannot, or will not, fit into their home country. There, you can shed all your failures and misfortunes and fashion yourself an outlaw, or as an adventurer. I want to run away from unpaid bills and an empty life. There's nothing like gazing on the misery of others to make you forget your own. There's nothing like seeing ordinary people making it through in hellish circumstances to give you hope for humanity. Instead of looking at the dreary sameness of strip malls and expanses of asphalt, I can look at brick red dirt and deep azure sky. I won't have a past or a future. I will haunt the ruins of temples and wander through raucous markets. And when McDonald's comes, I'll flee to Burma.

Posted by Hiromi at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Let me say this up front: don't read this blog if you want pretty stories. Or neat and tidy ones, or uplifting ones, or even dignified ones. I'm no ersatz starlet traipsing in and out of treatment centers. Recovery is both incredibly mundane and full of ugly humanity.

There was something about Blade Runner that I never understood until I picked up a copy of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? recently and leafed through it. Now all the animal-related questions make sense -- Leon being asked about the turtle being flipped on its back, Rachael being asked about the wasp on her arm and the killing jar. Replicants aren't capable of animal-empathy. They may say the right things, but their eyes say different. The Voight-Kampff machine exposes the ways that their bodies betray their attempts to "pass." Even if you've mastered the proper gestures, gait, body language, and speech, your body can betray you on a deeper level.

Same goes for us and our real-life Voight-Kampff machines. Consider the following reading I've been doing about the brain. This NY Times article is about a prune-sized area of the brain called the insula, which essentially combines rational thinking with feelings and emotion. The article was written after it was reported that people who experience lesions to this part of the brain were able to quit smoking instantaneously. Here's a quote from the article:

The human insula, with its souped-up anatomy, is also important for processing events that have yet to happen, Dr. Paulus said. “When you decide to go outside on a cold day, your body gets ready before you hit the cold air,” he said. “It starts pumping blood to where you need it and adjusts your metabolism. Your insula tells you what it will feel like before you step outside.”

The same goes for drug addicts. When an addict is confronted with sights, sounds, smells, situations or other stimuli associated with drug use, the insula is activated before using the drug. “If you give cocaine to an addict, you are affecting their brain’s reward system, but this is not what drives the person to keep using cocaine,” Dr. Paulus said. The craving is what gets people to use.

More on the brain chemistry of we addicts from this NY Times Sunday Magazine article:

Recent studies in both animals and humans have indicated that those with low levels of dopamine D2 receptors, which regulate the release of dopamine in the brain, are more likely to find the experience of taking drugs pleasurable. Some researchers, like Volkow, suggest that people with fewer D2 receptors experience a less intense reward signal, causing them to overindulge in order to feel satisfied.

and thees:

GABA (gamma-aminobutyric acid) is the brain's major inhibitory transmitter, and its role, in essence, is to keep glutamate, the main excitatory transmitter, from overwhelming us. In the extreme, too much glutamate can cause a seizure and too much GABA can put us in a coma. Researchers are particularly interested in the brain's critical balance of GABA and glutamate — some hypothesize that addictive craving is the result of too much glutamate or too little GABA ... "What's been shown is that people with alcohol and cocaine problems have less GABA in their brains, and we do know that medications that increase GABA have shown some efficacy in treating addiction." ([Dr.] Vocci says that it isn't yet clear whether the absence of GABA is a cause of addiction or a result.)

So if you were to show me an ice cold shot of vodka, my insula would betray me, as would distinctive differences in dopamine receptors and GABA activity in my brain. My brain is distinctive for other reasons, too. I've included two links about brain changes associated with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD): this one from a website, but if you are interested in medical journals, here's an article from the Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences. According to those articles, rape and eight years of psychological torment have rendered my medial prefrontal cortex smaller than normal and hyporesponsive; my amygdala hypersensitive; and my hippocampus diminished in volume, neuronal integrity, and functional integrity. In addition to brain changes, I have lower levels of cortisol and higher levels of epinephrine and norepinephrine, apparently. Having typed all that, I realize that the terror that I felt when the ex emailed me about joint taxes last week, the feeling that he was "going to get me" wasn't some figment separate from my tissue. So much for the mind-body dichotomy.

I used to believe that I was born broken. I believed I was raped and abused because in nature, that's the fate that befalls defective creatures -- if a newly-hatched chick has defects, the others will peck it to death. I don't believe that anymore. Or to be more honest, I'm maybe 90% sure that's not true. But I can't deny that my experiences have changed me so fundamentally that the changes are actually physical and measurable. I may not have been born broken, but I have been broken and warped.

Don't tell me I'm being harsh on myself -- there are things in me that are fundamentally wrong. Show a normal person ice cold vodka or vicodin, and they see liquid or white tablets. Show me, and my insula lights up, my pleasure centers go out of whack. What other twisted things make my brain light up, my pupils dilate? I spent a part of tonight gripped with intense self-loathing; that might not be abnormal, but how do you explain an almost overpowering urge to bite down on my own tongue so I can taste the blood? The inside of my head is not a pretty place. I don't look for pity or praise. What I need is an outlet. I feel that if I ride out the urges to drink and to self-harm, or if I give them concrete form external to me, I will purge them.

Some day, I will rule the world. I know it.

I've neglected this: 25peeps.com

Posted by Hiromi at 12:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Fuck this shit. Someday, I'm going to rule the world.

Posted by Hiromi at 9:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

You'd have thought that at my age, I would no longer be surprised at how the race is not to the swift but time and chance happeneth. I just fucking wish they would happeneth on my side once in a fucking while.

Posted by Hiromi at 10:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

There's a real downside to having a "past." You will be going about your bidness when all of a sudden something will ambush you. Last night, I was searching my email account for some photos of my nephews that my sister sent me when I came across an email thread that had been written the day after my overdose. Being the type of person who always has to look, I opened it. I didn't intend to write another "what it's like to be crazy" post, but today's been one long flashback.

The emails were mostly brief, staccato exchanges. What struck me most was one line I wrote: "I'm so scared. I don't want to be crazy." It was not so much what I wrote but what it reminded me of. I'd forgotten what those early days were like. Weeks, actually. I hesitate to say this, because it can be misread in so many different ways, but at some point, I had "chosen" sanity. But the choice alone isn't enough. In those early days, I felt like I wasn't walking on solid ground, and that I could relapse back into insanity at any given moment.

My memories of the days are not clear, but I do remember that it was brutally hot that month. Thankfully, I had a month to move from my old place to my new place, and I had help. I don't remember what I did about work. It seems that I had enough to do during the day to distract myself, but I was terrified at night. I remember going to a nice shaded track around sunset and walking compulsively to occupy my mind. After the compulsive exercise, I'd be so exhausted I'd fall asleep pretty quickly. But before I fell asleep, I'd stare at the window above my bed. It seemed that demons were gathering under that window, and I could almost hear them whispering. It's a scary thing to be completely without all your accustomed defense mechanisms. Instead, I had (and still have) a lucky talisman, which is pretty funny considering my total lack of belief in the supernatural. But at night, I'd clutch it so hard that it left imprints on my hand. Concentrating on what the talisman meant to me helped me make it through those nights.

After reading that email, I got in bed. I tossed and turned, trying not to think about how fucking terrified I was back then. I knew of course that things are different now: my environment is completely neutral; shadows are just shadows, and the sound of the wind is just wind. Nothing is out to get me. I'm completely aware that things are better, but I feel like I'm mourning something. It's not important to know exactly what that could be, and I don't feel like analyzing it. I just want to mourn.

Posted by Hiromi at 12:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

If it were just a matter of white-knuckled will, my morale wouldn't be in the toilet. But life being what it is, here's my meagre arsenal for Toilet Survival:

1) Get some mileage out of it in a blackly comic sense
2) Mini marshmallows in sweet cream ice cream with butterscotch sauce
3) Creating an elaborate story with myself in the starring role.

Today, I'm doing the latter two. My keyboard is now sticky with butterscotch sauce. So here's my story:

I wrote about Frantz Fanon before, specifically here. I started reading him around the time I was leaving my marriage, after someone I admired had mentioned his books. As a person who was born under French colonialism, he was one of the first to articulate the point of view of the colonized person. Here's the cartoon version of what he said: colonization, as a systematic brutalization that occurs in both physical and psychological space, denies people their basic humanity. Thus, the colonized find themselves in a state of alienation. Not being mere abject victims, they rebel, first in a disorganized and random fashion as their pent-up rage seeks an outlet. In this process, they may learn that their oppressors are not superhuman or omnipotent; they awaken, and upon achieving Consciousness, they overthrow their oppressors.

At the time, I identified because my marriage felt just like that: a systematic physical and psychological brutalization. I'm very careful about drawing parallels like this. It's incredibly insulting to have real suffering appropriated by spoiled self-aggrandizing idiots. If you've ever actually experienced real hardship, you don't make glib comparisons like that. Having said that, I still feel that "colonization" is an apt metaphor for a condition in which you're denied self-determination and control over your own body, and your perception of reality is distorted to reflect reality only as your oppressor sees it. Also, there's a reason why people in either situation