Victorya Chase Goes To Therapy

Long Time No See

2013-01-20T23:01:00.002-05:00

I'm Alive!

And howdy Amel, I think I need your e-mail so we can talk off blog sometime.

An update: Wow, it's been a long time and this blog helped me a great deal as did everyone involved in it, meaning all of you out there and in my links and in general. I now have my masters and am teaching writing to doctors, among many other things. In fact, I'm running a poetry workshop for surgeons in a few weeks.

My mother still stalks me. I got a letter a couple of years ago sent certified mail to an address she shouldn't have (a friend figures she has a private eye keeping tabs on me) saying she would drive the 9 hours to my place and 'purge you from my system' so that's still hanging there, that being 'her.'

I recently moved for my job and the manager so far is very nice about the PTSD. I'm setting up an appointment with a therapist just for the occassional touch-up sessions. Plus to help with the move and such. Although, I haven't had a panic attack in over two years now. I've come close, real close, but never full-on.

I am writing and have two stories that are online now, you can also buy a story in a magazine or two. I'd love the novel of my therapy, of my life, to happen and am working on that with a professor this semester. We'll see what comes of it. It's hard, especially with the threat still so present even if it's 'just a threat.' And yes, that letter is documented with a lawyer.

Here are links to my stories:

The Cat Psychic

Dreaming of the Manananggal

I don't know if I ever thanked everyone. I've since learned that the most important way you can help someone heal is to just listen, and that's what you all did and I'm so very grateful. I miss the blog and the community we had together. So thank you so much.

Chicken Soup For the Soul

2009-07-23T13:10:00.002-04:00

I'm so stoked, just got the official e-mail that a story I wrote about my dear sweet Penny will be included in this anthology. I grew up reading these, they always gave me so much hope. I'm just ecstatic that now I'll be in one for kids like me to read (and adults too!)

You can pre-order this anywhere now apparently, and it's published on September 22nd. I can't wait to get a copy in my hands and see it in print, and go to every bookstore and see the name Victorya Chase in such an inspiring tome.

Cheers!

UPDATE

2009-05-28T13:53:00.004-04:00

Hello There! It's been a while for sure, thought I'd provide a little update.

As with all things in life, stuff happens. I did in fact have another episode, or whatever it's called now. Work got tough, life got tough, a LOT was going on and suddenly I realized I was in the spiral.

The good news? I NOTICED. I called my therapist. That's progress. Something was wrong and I could feel it.

In talking with my therapist it came out that the goal, the new goal, the forever goal I suppose is to keep the period of time between each flashback, each anxiety spiral that leaves me with stomach cramps and unable to sleep, a lot longer. And it was long. Maybe a year? While I don't hope for a next time, I will try and recognize it and hope it's very much in the far future, not near.

So Victorya Chase is back in therapy, but is back to increasing the time between sessions.

I will say there is still a big change between when I first started this blog and coming to the update. My 'Interpersonal skills' have increased. I have more people I'm closer too, which I am attributing as much to me being more open to accepting people as to others accepting me. It's so easy to say it's someone elses fault for not 'understanding you' when you close yourself off to others, which is a place I've been.

In even more news. I'm moving! I get to quit the job which is an unhealthy environment and go to a sleepy mountain town where I'll be entering grad school.

Big Brothers, Big Sisters Program

2008-06-02T10:34:00.000-04:00

The Big Brothers Big Sisters Program is billed as a mentoring program in the United States. It takes youths (mainly those at a proven disadvantage – lower economic status, single-parent households, etc.) and pairs them with an adult of the same gender to act as a mentor, to take them to cultural institutions or just spend time listening to them.

I had a ‘Big Sister’ growing up. This was a point where my mother tried, but fate was never on our side. My ‘Big Sister’ was a ‘Big Politician’ in the town. I believe she was even older than my mother. She lived in what was, to us, a mansion in the ritzy part of town. She had two big dogs and, though married, had no children. In the beginning, it was great. We went to ballets, museums, restaurants I had never been too. She was running for reelection. When she was sworn in, having won, I held the Bible in a dress she bought.

Then she stopped calling.

But not totally, she just became too busy to have me around. So she’d buy tickets to events and give them to me so my mother could take me- which isn’t what I wanted. Sure, I got to see Cats the musical that way and watch my mother, who told me that the show was going to be crap, cry during ‘Memories’ but it wasn’t the same.

I’ll never forget when my Big Sister was helping me get ready for a dance at school. This was Jr. High. She asked me what size my dress was – I was a 12. She told me that even at her age she’d never been that big.

Way to mentor.

I remember after it officially ended, I looked through the memorabilia of our time together. There were her pamphlets for re-election, with all of her good deeds laid out. Chief among them- she was a proud Big Sister.

This brought me back to all the times we went out before re-election, to how I held the Bible at her invocation and the Kodak moment it was.

I felt completely used, a pawn in a politicians play for power. That was it. Meaningless, just another instance of me being tossed aside when there was no more use for me.

That is the way I felt a lot in life. Incidental, of no consequence. I remember yelling at my mother that I felt like a prostitute. In order to get dinner, I had to hug her or tell her I loved her. Affection was traded for the necessities of life. And it was all so meaningless, so disgusting on many levels.

Dental Woes Continue and Last Meeting

2008-04-17T13:43:00.003-04:00

I had my official official last session with my therapist the other day. It was interesting. We talked more about my writing, really, and how that has changed. See, when I first went, I was scared, really scared to write. I was scared that someone might find me, might challenge me, might try to pull me down.

I don't know how to say it really, but I think I have more confidence now. I'm still jumpy as hell, especially when stressed. Just the other day a co-worker bumped into me and man did I reach the roof, lol, they're learning though. It's a learning process for all of us. One guy has finally learned not to point around me, it really bugs me, just the whole unpredictable movement things. But when it comes to meeting people, I'm there. When it comes to trusting others, way better. And when it comes to my dreams -

Recently I've had a couple dreams about my mother. Both involve her coming into my apartment, moving in. One just had her renting the apartment above mine. In both I fought back. I was adamant to my landlord that she should not rent a place here, that I, a tenant in this complex for eight years who always paid would be out the door. In the other I kicked her out. I have control. Not that I want to run into her in real time.

Okay, I think I'm going to be all over the map today, I haven't written on here in a while and am not writing in word first. April 26th is the 'deathiversary' of my Penny, whom I wrote about before. My real mother. It's still hard that she's gone, I'm going up to her grave this weekend to leave pussywillows. I know it's a bit cliche, pussywillows for a cat, but I think it fits. If all goes well I'm going with a new friend I met, a non-online one. The online life is an easy escape, but I have to join the real world with the virtual.

Oh, and my dental woes continue, only now with my dental insurance used up, ugh. Now we're on to apico surgery, through the gum to get at a root. And this is all stemming from childhood dental work that was done wrong. Not even done wrong, they said it was partially completed and I was supposed to have it finished as a child. But through whatever happened I was always told it was a finished product, and it wasn't.

See, there is so much happening that can bring me to my past, but now I'm looking to a future. I have a future.

Cheers!

Long Time No See

2008-03-19T09:31:00.002-04:00

Howdy!

Sorry I've been away for a while. I'm phazing out of therapy now, as I mentioned. I have another meeting in April, and am now doing an 8 week group thing which is interesting, but as it is a 'group,' we all had to sign confidentiality statements, which makes sense. I wouldn't want my real name blabbed and have no desire to talk about other peoples resolving issues.

Life has been interesting in that I forever have dental problems. I'm still, after over 12 hours in the dentists chair, not done with one root canal and then broke a tooth on the other side of my mouth leaving me on mush for a while. I noticed now that when I click peoples links, more blogs have gone private which is sad. I miss you guys!

I hope all is well/better/getting better with everyone.

It’s a Good Thing

2008-01-31T10:28:00.001-05:00

When I started this blog way back when, I was in the deepest part of the dungeon of despair. But I saw the window. This let me know that there was life outside. I know I’m lucky, that some don’t even see that window and think that the damp and darkness and self hatred and confusion is all there is. But I saw the light and knew where I wanted to be which is why I called, in tears, at midnight, for a psychiatric referral. Then, I did nothing with the number and lost it because I was scared of what it said about me that I needed help. However, over a month later, I found myself after three days of crying and tortured thoughts and flashbacks realizing help isn’t something bad to ask for and called again, crying at midnight, and started regular therapy.

Goals were set. I wanted to recognize triggers, to get methods to deal with them, to discover what set me off. I wanted no more flashbacks, night terrors, to get the voice of my mother telling me how worthless I am out of my head. I wanted to stop her continued control over me. I wanted a feeling of self-worth.

Things weren’t easy. The first few sessions involved me reliving the worst moment, the one freshest in my mind, the one where a lot of guilt started – when my mother killed my cat but blamed me. I had to keep going into the memory, to stop looking in as an outsider, but begin to look out of my 12-year old eyes and remember how she was the one that performed the actions. And it's not like stuff didn't start way before then. Hell, I remember her ripping my clothes off my back and dragging me by my hair way before then. But that's the moment that stuck, especially with the whole Bobo situation.

I had to take control of my past to take control of my future.

The thing that is the worst for me is the feeling of being trapped, because I was trapped for so long. Crowds, elevators, etc., I don’t freak out but don’t like them. Then, with both feet broken, I was trapped.

I worked with my therapist for well over a year and have slept much better. In fact, the last bottle of Ambien I got, in January of 2007 was for 30 pills. I still have some left. That’s a good thing.

Anyway, during that time at home I was faced with a lot of triggers. I was mostly immobile, my mother e-mailed me, I needed to rely on other people. And I handled it. I lived through that time and saw that people can be trusted, dependable.

So now, I’m phasing out of therapy. I meet with her once in February, and then we discuss the final session. It’s a good feeling, to regain control. Just as good as when I first got the diagnosis and realized I’m not alone, and more importantly, am not crazy like my family. Sure, some things come up. Right now the news is all over the Nixmary trial. To those not informed, she’s a little girl that was killed by her parents. They abused her horribly, forcing her to use the cat litter box, constant beatings, among other things. These stories are truly upsetting, and do bring up old feelings and memories. It’s sad that such abuse continues all too often.

Another big help was this blog. I started it to help me face things, to help me face therapy. I never really thought it would get the positive reception it would, the wonderful people that would appear, converted from the binary of computer language to support and aid, both in support of my blogs and my own escape in theirs.

But for now, it’s Victorya phasing out of therapy and wondering where my life will lead. Where ever it does lead, I know I’m the one doing the leading. It’s a good thing.

The Cats of My Life: Bobo

2008-01-28T10:05:00.000-05:00

Photo Copyright: victoryachasegoestotherapy.blogspot.com

In terms of my journey, this is the last cat. She was a foster that I didn’t want. I had been searching for something after Penny died and got in touch with a local rescue group to help them. Basically, what I wanted to do was sit with them during the adoption events, take photographs for the website, etc.

This guy I met ended up being a manipulative bastard, and I was an easy mark. He told me of how many cats were dying in his cramped apartment, how they needed someplace else to stay – just for a few months. Some place like. . my apartment After a month or so of guilt trips I relented, and he brought over two not one cat—and the trouble began.

That first night Bobo shredded the bottom of my box spring and climbed in. Now, this was the first bed I ever bought. This was the first bed that was purely MY bed, not a hand me down, not my mother’s old bed, not an air bed, not a futon. I was livid, I had to get the cat out (ever try sleeping with an animal climbing around inside your mattress?) then duct tape the box spring.

“When are you going to adopt her out” was a common phrase with me, but he didn’t even bring her down to show her on weekends, where I was still helping out. Then, I think as he realized my guilt associated with the animals he began to delve deeper, telling me how all his money is spent solely for the good of the felines, and how the money I spent on my camera (which I was using to take photos of the cats then edit for the website) should have been given to him instead, as he wouldn’t be as frivolous as I obviously was. Luckily, I saw that as a warning sign and stopped helping him. Up to that point I had been donating a lot of time and energy, after that, I just wanted the cats out.

Then he admitted it was his tactic, to get people to foster but with no intention of adopting them to someone else. “After a while people get used to the cats and generally keep them,” he told me. So I figured, fine, I’ll keep them then send them to another adoption agency and told him I’d adopt them. “Then you owe me $200” he told me. “What the F*ck” was my reply. I’d given tons of time and energy, these animals were supposed to have already been wormed and yet the first week worms crawled out of one’s rear end (in full view of me, and on me) and I had to pay for worming, leukemia testing, etc., to the tune of over $300 already. Plus, the contract stated he could sue me if I got rid of the animal (like the recent Ellen debacle) and he had such a big ego, he would do it.

One of the cats then got adopted, but Bobo was tougher. She was unstable. She’d be sweet and cute and cuddly, getting up on my lap, and then turn and bite me or scratch me. She liked to snuggle up in my armpit at night, but half way through she’d grab my arm and kick, and the scars still aren’t fully faded. This was the cat that drove me over the edge.

I had her for over a year, I was trying to anticipate her moods. What did I do that caused her to act out? I bought her a cat condo, she took my favorite silk pillow as her bed, she was fed only organic cat food. I tried everything, but her mood would shift without provocation. Things would be good for a day or two, and then she'd attack me again. It got to the point where I’d just look at her and cry. For three days straight I cried, even missing work.

And that’s when it hit me – She was just like my mother, and I needed help. That’s when I started asking around for a psychiatrist and told the guy to get her out of my house that weekend (I also called other shelters, but all were full). That’s when I decided “screw it, I’m being railroaded and manipulated by a cat and an ass with a God complex that just uses other people to deify himself as some savior. I need to put myself first.”

Bobo was the bottom I reached before realizing I needed to find that rope to climb back up and find myself. That was when I started therapy.

And the first thing the therapist said?

“Geez, do I really need to tell you that she was your mother?”

Nope, I had figured it out, and that’s why I called for help.

What's On My Mind

2008-01-23T11:33:00.000-05:00

I realized there are two posts I still need to make. One is the last in my feline series and then one more. Of course, today is neither of those posts. They are still swimming in my mind. Today is about yesterday.

Yesterday I had to have an endoscopy. That’s when they stick a camera down your throat to check on your stomach and esophagus and take biopsies and other fun stuff. But that’s not important either.

After the biopsy, my friend came to pick me up. The doctors told her to hold me that I might be woozy. She wrapped her arm around me and asked if I’d mind that people will think we’re a gay couple. She loves to hold hands on the street with her female friends, hug them, be affectionate in public. I told her I didn’t really give a damn. But again, not that part of the day that bugged me.

Heath Ledger died, that wasn’t good, but that’s also not what is on my poor brain. Well, it’s there, but not predominant.

Coming out of the ‘Specialty Center’ as they like to think they aren’t a hospital, my friend and I, arm in arm, watched a man get beaten by the cops. We weren’t the only ones, there were people all around.

At first, we just saw the three cops and a guy behind them, then we heard the screaming, “stop resisting arrest, stop resisting arrest” and noticed that they were billy-clubbing a guy on the ground. This man had on a hat (it was snowing yesterday) and was clutching a duffel bag tightly, he was on the ground, but not fully – more like kneeling (or being pushed as, again, three cops and a fourth guy were on top of him).

The cops kept yelling that he was resisting arrest, he was screaming, “I didn’t do nuthin!”

Then one of the cops yelled for the spray, and this guy got it about three times in the face. Enough that my friend and I could see the white foam running down as he screamed. The cops continued to yell, and one was now livid about getting some of the residual spray as apparently there is a dispersal pattern.

This was in a matter of seconds, and my friend took me across the street. We walked around the block and when we came back, there was an ambulance.

“Why do you think they need an ambulance?” she asked. “Maybe because a guy was just beaten and maced by three cops?” I replied way too snottily. Luckily, she blamed it on the time being after 4 pm and me not having eaten since 6 am.

Contact

2008-01-11T10:18:00.000-05:00

Okay, so here's the deal, the real deal.

My mother contacted me.

Now, she has me address, my name, my info. It's not like it's easy to move around from house to house in my city, living space is a high commodity.

In the past she's sent cards, every few years or so, and I've ignored them.

But this was an e-mail. And, she dared to talk about my beloved cat, my REAL mother.

The therapist asked what was so wrong about that, as the sentiments were simply, "I'm sorry she passed" but the meaning is deeper to me. It's like someone who killed your child telling you they understand how you must feel, as they lost their child too and asking for a hug of understanding. It doesn't fly with me.

I tried, my friends tried, a co-worker tried to see how she could have gotten that e-mail address and no Google combination came up with it. We did get a number of sites offering us all my info for a mere 29.95USD and figure that's what she did.

So I was entirely pissed, I was angry, I was afraid. If she found my e-mail (and the other site that I used to run that she mentioned) how soon until she found this one? How soon until she infiltrated other parts of my life? Plus, I've already been told that she's harassed a couple other people I have contact with (albeit sporadically) so who else will she hunt down? How much MORE unstable is she now? I like my life, my school, my job - how will she attempt to f#ck it up in her goal to bring me down?

My neighbors were put on alert - pictures went out and everyone instructed to call 9-11 should she show up. Then I calmed down.

So I talked to my doctor who wondered if I wasn’t still giving my mother too much power, which probably led to me reading the book about owning your shadow and realizing, yeah, I was. I don’t want to swing to far the other way and cry, ‘just let her try something!’ but I did have to move on from that initial fright and ponder how a. She’s still trying to f*ck with me and b. it does still affect me. But then, that is what I’m working on, why I’m in therapy, why I started the blog. To deal with the fears I have, and her, as the absolute worst one.

Here, let me be completely honest. My therapist asked what I would like to hear from my mother, and I said the first thing that came to me – “I don’t want to hear from her at all, I want to hear from her lawyer telling me she’s dead.” And I suppose, in the end I’m realizing that the way I felt with that contact was like an aftershock, the main drama is over, the earthquake gone, all that’s left are the occasional tremors.

(censored, but unedited, sorry. In a state where if I don't post I won't.)

Owning Your Shadow

2008-01-08T14:59:00.000-05:00

Recently, while cleaning my house I found this book, Owning Your Shadow by Robert Johnson. It was a Harper Collins book, so I figure I most have nabbed it while I did a rotation through there. They had a great benefit (if lousy pay) and that was in the basement they'd put out books that employees could nab. You'd see us all down there just waiting for new books to be put out, and I was more than happy to run any errand that would bring me past that treasure trove.

Anyway, I'm not generally one for self-help psychobabble type stuff, which even when I picked the book up again recently, I felt it was. Just the title kind of irks me. Calling the dark side 'the shadow' isn't my thing, but it's my understanding he takes this from the Jungian philosophies the book attempts to 'bring down' to proletariat level.

But, it has made it's way into my bathroom reading rotation, and I'm about two-thirds through it now. And I have to say, I'm digging parts of it, or parts of it make sense.

I've always been about the unity of self, which this book promotes. It talks about making some ceremonial gifts to the 'dark side' once in a while to feed it and keep it from rearing it's ugly head (and it uses Mass as a perfect example of ceremoniously appeasing dark forces, what with the eating of flesh and drinking of blood and worshiping capital punishment and all that).

The part that stuck out, was where it talks about OTHERS shadows and how parents who don't want to deal with the darkness inside them, split and send their 'shadows' onto their children who then have to shoulder the burden of not just their own disunity, but their parents as well.

Which made me think - before I started this book things came up that brought back old fears (part of why I haven't posted in a while). All growing up, I felt my mother had the power, and technically, physically, she did. She was huge and imposing, taller than me, could throw my brother and I around. She crowed about how strong she was (on more than one occassion she also jumped kids that bothered my brother, a notable one sent her sliding down a snowy hill). She talked about her strength of character and physical strength that could cause us pain.

But she was weak, so very weak. She couldn't handle the burden of pain that her parents put on her, she couldn't handle her own darkness, so instead, she thrust it upon her children. She crowed about her perfections and her strengths and frequently commented on the weakness of her children. But we were the stronger, for we (or at least I, I like to think my brother has succeeded in unifying our fractured selves as well) had to deal with her by ourselves, while she just shoveled burden after burden on us so she didn't have to deal with it. We were like her own emotional garbage cans.

I'm just jotting stuff down freehand here or else I know I won't, so please excuse if this sounds to self-helpy or just incomprehensible (or badly spelled) but it pisses me off to think about it now. More than the physical abuse, all the mental ills that she forced on us just prove what a *insert swear word here* whimp she was, and that as always she put her own immediate needs over the long-term ones of her children. And all this time I thought she was strong, but only because she kept saying she was. I guess that proves that no matter how many times you repeat a lie, it still doesn't make it true.

Happy New Year!

2007-12-31T16:50:00.000-05:00

Okay, I've been way lax in many things, but wanted to say, Happy New Year! Oh My, 2008 already? I'm getting old!

A lot has been going on, but I'm processing.

Cheers!

Just a quick note

2007-12-19T11:33:00.000-05:00

First, to thank all of you who have come by in my lax time, which will probably stay lax for a while still. It's really appreciated, and the support helps so much. Big Hugs!

Second, to let you know I'm back at work and it's tiring. I forgot our building takes up the entire block, so to get water is to walk a block and back. And now, even worse because if you remember a couple weeks ago I tripped and hurt my toe on my good foot? Now that the swelling is down the x-ray showed that it is indeed broken, so I get a surgical shoe for BOTH feet, and they are like cheep MBTs, those curved shoes that simulate walking on the beach? So it takes a lot of glutes.

I hope all the rest of you in blogland are doing well and have a great/had a great holiday!

Sniff Time To Go Back To Work

2007-12-15T13:49:00.000-05:00

Pending a snowstorm, I'm at work on Monday. So sorry for not keeping this up while at home. It's amazing how fast the time flew, I honestly think each week was a day. Wasn't it just yesterday I had the surgery? No? Okay.

Each week I still met with my therapist. My greatest fear was being trapped, and here I was for four weeks unable to walk. She thinks a lot of stuff came to head. Yeah, I was crying a lot and dealing with things. There were nights when every noise woke me, and I didn't want to take the Ambien because what if I forgot and stepped on my foot waking up all hung-over? Now, I can't find what I did with them. One conversation was particularly funny. My shower leaks, so I close the door as to not hear it. It's also always a good twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the house.

"Everytime I wake up to go to the bathroom at night, I keep thinking there's someone behind the door," I told her.

"Now why would they do that?"

"I don't know, because it's cold outside and my bathroom is really warm."

"So you think someone would climb up the fire escape, break into your bathroom, for a warm place to sleep?"

"Uhm, yeah. I know, if someone broke in, they'd open the door and come into the rest of the house."

Ah, the things we thing of :)

I Can Walk!

2007-12-11T16:31:00.000-05:00

Well, it's a sort of stumbling hoppy thing, but I still made it to the post office today on my own. Took me two hours to go there, stop at the pharmacy, the grocery store, and return. Keep in mind - the post office is only about 14-16 blocks away.

Still, I have to go to the doctor tomorrow because while the stitches were removed yesterday, by night time the top was cracking and there was a little blood. It hurts and really looks like it's breaking at the seam. I was told the day is packed and I'll probably end up waiting for a while. For the first time in a month I have to set my alarm clock. That totally sucks.

I really can't beleive how tiring this whole thing has been. Everything is so much harder, especially the whole showering thing. I haven't been on the computer nearly as much as while I'm at work, lol. However, nor have I been awake as much as usual as I tend to still sleep about 15 hours a day.

ARGH!

2007-12-05T17:07:00.000-05:00

I went to the doctor today, and he said one more week for the crutches and stitches. I was hoping to get to the grocery store this weekend. I'm dying for an avocado and some farmer's market bread. My neighbor is great, when she goes every weekend she asks if I want anything, but then she gets the wrong item. I'm very specific about my farmer's market vendors, and she prefers different ones than I do.

So, on the way home - I hate the steps outside my house. They were redone so they are nice and horrible uneven and the colors don't even match the place. So, they are tough to ascend in crutches (no railings either). The inevitable happened - I tripped. Now, my one good foot is a giant bruise. It hurts soooo much. And the other foot I still can't put wait down on. It looks like an origami balloon, the skin so dry I can see the seams. I had the doc put lotion on it today :)

oh yeah, ARGH!

Another Day, Another Doctor's Appointment

2007-11-28T19:37:00.000-05:00

I went for another follow-up today. The doctor said the swelling is about 99% better than any other patient he'd seen with the surgery. (Swelling is a major problem with foot surgery, as the blood can just flow and pool down there). I told him I was elevating it as told, and using a foam wedge.

"What do you mean?"

"Those things you get for GERD, a wedge. I figured it would elevate my feet without putting strain on my knees like if I just used pillows."

So he called in another doctor to look at my foot. They both agreed it looked great. So he asked about the wedge more.

"It goes from about here," I said, pointing to my hip, "to my foot, a gradual incline so I don't put stress on my joints."

"That's the problem with pillows," the other doctor said, "It puts stress on the joints."

"And people kick them off," my doctor said. "Most patients don't elevate their feet at night because of this. Dr. - go look up these foam wedges, we have to start selling them as foot wedges."

"And you're going to reccommend them to other patients?" I asked.

"No, I'm going to make them mandatory from now on. Every patient should have them after surgery."

I feel like a dork. I assumed he knew about the foam wedges for the bed. He asked more questions about it, and thought it was wonderful. Now he's going to buy them and resell them to his patients (probably having the insurance pay for it) and make even more money and from my idea which I assumed was common sense - if you have to put your foot up, use a gradual incline. He'd been having his patients use pillows. That's it, I'm asking for a cut of the profits.

On the plus side, my idea is going to help others heal better and in a more comfortable manner. In the end, I don't think this surgery was nearly as bad as it could be. Granted, it's not over yet and still hurts, but more from the crutches than anything else. Though the physical therapy will be a bitch I'm sure.

Family Reunion? No Time Soon

2007-11-22T21:37:00.000-05:00

I'm back to no photos. I know. I'm tired, weak, and damn if my hands don't hurt more each day.

I've been thinking about my brother a lot, since even before seeing Stop-Loss. I don't know what I want from him, honestly. Somedays I think it would be great to reunite - but he was so far gone last time we talked, I think it's dangerous.

"So what do you think will happen?" my therapist asks.

"I think he might talk to my mom about me."

"And what does that matter? It's not like she has control over you."

"Yeah, but I don't even want her to know how I'm doing, to try and take pride in what I've done."

"But you won't even know."

"But I'll consider it a betrayal, another act of him running and telling mommy on me."

Basically, I want nothing to do with her, and my brother is an extension of her. Just like I'm the reflection of our history, the reason he doesn't want to see me. I'm the keeper of the memory, of the pain of our childhood.

I called my aunt and grandma today. The whole act of reconnecting. Not easy. My aunt said she wanted to come to NYC and see me. I told her I'm not ready. I haven't seen her in over 12 years and I haven't had a family since maybe age 7, maybe age 9, I can't put an exact date on when I realized how emotionally alone I was. Family is foreign to me.

"You know what?" she told me. "After every card you send, every time you call, I immediately call your dad and tell him how you are doing."

It was like the breath was sucked out of me. Betrayal. I don't want him taking any pride in what I've done. The last time I saw him, when I was nine, I climbed up the stairs to a slide, looked down on his head, just starting to bald, and realized I hated him. I spat on him. I can't help but run my finger over the scar from when he punched me and my tooth went through my lip even as I type this.

"He's very proud of you sweetie. He knew you'd be the one to make it. He doesn't care about your brother, but he loves you."

My brother, despite all that my father did, despite the 'alleged' molestation, the pornography, the violence, the horrendous gas that had my brother and I run to our rooms and put towels at the bottom of the doors, always wanted to love my dad. Just like I wanted to be loved by my mother.

"He's been married for 25 years now you know."

He told my brother, in a letter, that he had a new family, a new son, and didn't want him to contact him anymore. That he wasn't his father anymore. Yet my brother didn't learn. He cried and he cried and I could hear his heart crackle like ice on a warm summers day. But goddammit, he still tried.

"I gotta go, my foot's acting up." I said.

"We love you, you know that."

"Yeah, thanks, I think I have to ice it."

"We do, we've always loved you. It's terrible what your mom did. But she kept you from us."

"She kept me from everbody," I replied, "Not just you. Even from herself. I really have to ice it."

Follow-up

2007-11-21T15:33:00.000-05:00

Here are some things I've learned in this past week:

Limited Mobility Sucks
The smell of Icy/Hot makes me really sick. Seriously, the headaches and nausea are not worth the limited muscle releif
We put a hell of a lot of pressure on our feet. The way my palms hurt after a week on crutches, I'm pampering my feet way more in the future. They're literate, they read that and are happy.
The following are dangerous to have at the same time: Free time, the internet, good credit, the Victoria Secret Clearance Catalogue with codes for the free Very Sexy Lip kit with any sweater purchase.

I went to the doctor today. They said it looks good. It reminded me of one of Chewy's paintings. There were the white cross-hatches of the cotton, then a big yellow splotch of abstract colour. Then, as the layers were peeled away a ruddy/rust brown splotch dominated, with the yellow fading away in the background (but still with the white lines throughout). Of course, that was drying blood, iodine, and the gauze. But it was vivid and had form. Once all peeled away, my poor frankenfoot was iodined yellow with purple lines (the stitches) on the side of the foot where they went in to screw the bone together. Two more weeks of crutches.

I think I aggravated the doctor. He said it looks fine and without any signs of infection. "You mean, like MRSA?" I said. He told me not to even say that word. "Oh, well, I was also thinking gangrene, or should I not say that too?" and he shot me an evil look.

"No, don't say that either."

My shoulders kill from the crutches, which keeps me from writing more than I would like.

Thanks so much for all the well wishes!

Johnny Appleseed

2007-11-17T10:49:00.000-05:00

While I'm arghing over foot issues and how I'm going to shower, I remembered this:

American folktales were big in my childhood. It was one of the items in our curriculum that my mother was good at and reinforced at home. Fables. We learned about Babe the Big Blue Ox and John Henry and, was it Coyote Bill? Yeah, Wild Bill Hicock, raised by the coyotes the same way I was raised by cats.

But my favorite was Johnny Appleseed. He walked barefoot across the United States planting apple trees. He had callouses on his feet so thick that he couldn't feel the cold or heat and walked across snow and the desert.

Of course, thinking back with my history, it's no wonder he was my hero - a person so calloused nothing could hurt him as he accomplished his life's mission.

The danger of such stories is this - from that moment forward I was determined to get big and calloused. I walked barefoot as much as possible. It'd built up my immunity to the snow walking barefoot through it, minutes turning to hours. This went on for a long time. By highschool I walked home barefoot. R. thought I was nuts. There was snow/slush on the ground and I was in my big winter boots. But, as hand me downs, they were too big. So I just took them off and walked those 5-10 blocks home through the snow in just my socks.

Of course, I have frostbite on my ankle. It never goes away. Now, whenever it gets cold that spot pops up again and burns. The area permanently damaged. But, I still have some good callouses on the bottom of my feet and the heels.

The Day After

2007-11-16T08:30:00.000-05:00

Surgery went well, so said the surgeon. My foot is warm and tingly, maybe a little sore. Other than that - even just these few hours with mobility issues has me feeling blessed - although I might be cursing at the end of the week as i realize how inaccessible my apt. is. I can't get the mail, and am no good with crutches going down my hill covered in wet leaves - almost fell last night so was driven to the door. Also, the landlord redid our front steps in the same craptacular way he 'fixed' my window - so they are uneven with ledges that even w/out crutches I trip over.

But, seriously. I have good friends, sore shoulders (from the crutches) but otherwise good health, and good health insurance.

Off to ice my foot again.

Oh yeah - my best friend and I are such a comic team together, all the nurses were laughing. That always means good service, and the good anesthesia (full, I was so knocked out! omg). I did notice more than one HIPAA violation (hospital information privacy act) which I hate, I used to do quality assurance for hospitals, so I'm sensitive too it. I was able to pick up a chart and start reading it. Don't worry, of the ones open for everyone to grab I just grabbed my own. I was showing my friend how to read it and what my surgery was going to be. But it was never questioned by all the nurses who came by.

Tomorrow. . .

2007-11-14T09:04:00.000-05:00

Is the day. If all goes well that is. I hate not having it set in stone. My doc still has to fax over the clearance forms, and the surgeons put down too different dates for my return to work (obviously, I want the later one!)

Interesting note - clearance forms require a pregnancy test. I told my doctor, "Knowing me and my beleifs, if that came back as positive, what would you do?"

"I'd start going to church a helluva lot more often."

So in the end, she said it's part of the patriarchal aspects of medicine that she hates, that they never take a women's word about her sexual encounters, or lack there of, and thus I wasn't tested. Yeah! I like a doctor that realizes I tell the truth about my body. For some reason, that whole pregnancy test thing ALWAYS offends me.

I can't eat after midnight tonight, but surgery doesn't begin until around 2 pm and I'm not expected to be able to go home until around 6! I'm hungry just thinking about it.

So, if I'm not on for a few days, it's because of the drug cocktail. (I've got sooooo many now, 3 for my stomach (but only take one of them, the others if it gets extreme), 1 for swelling and that will irritate my stomach, an antibiotic, and some codeine derivitive, plus other random stuff should these not work).

What Would Jesus Buy

2007-11-12T09:02:00.000-05:00

Image from toppun.com
Not to turn this into a film blog, but I got the chance to see an early screening of this film on Sunday. This the latest film produced by Morgan Spurlock (the guy who ate a lot of McDonald’s). In it, this performance artist Reverend Billy and his Stop Shopping Choir go around the nation in a bus to preach out against consumerism. As he says, it isn't about stopping shopping completely, that is just to get people's attention. It's about shopping responsibly, realizing what you need and don't need to buy, and realizing where your goods are coming from. In light of all the recalls from China, the increasing coverage of the dehumanizing conditions of the sweatshops, among other things, it's a timely message. The rev. takes his choir to places such as Disneyland and the Mall of America to sing out their message.

To be honest I will say that the first half was funny, and then I fell asleep toward the end. It's kind of a one note movie with a message. It's not like the tension escalates, or there are escalating beats. It kind of just is what it is.

But, it's just good that it got made I suppose. I'm so sick of the commercialization of holidays, especially Christmas. I'm tired of love being tied with money and presents of increasing 'value' when really, everything depreciates in value the minute it leaves the store. I know the wise men brought Jesus gifts, but one each. I have nothing against giving gifts at Christmas, just about Christmas being only about giving ginourmous gifts and the stress and anxiety that creates.

To quote a song we had to sing in the good ol' Salvation Army:

Christmas is all about love
Love from the Father from above
Christmas is all about peace and joy-

Stop-Loss

2007-11-09T08:46:00.000-05:00

Picture lovingly borrowed from imdb.com

Not much today. I saw the film Stop-Loss last night. It will be on everyone's lips when it comes out in March/April, or should. Stop-loss is when the government sends back shoulders who finished their committment with them and should be, in essence, free to go back to civilian lives. I guess it's also called the 'back-door draft.' People who serve their country can be forced to go back, and then jailed if they refuse. It also dealt with soldiers trying to reintegrate after the trauma they've suffered through.

I could go on, but I'm still processing it.

The Director/Writer, Kimberly Peirce was there. She also wrote Boys Don't Cry. I liked her a lot, she was very gracious (gave me her seat in the theater, I was initially up front and being that close in a war movie, my stomach was churning) and stayed to talk to the audience afterward. She is also just gorgeous, and so smart and articulate. My friend and I hung on every word, especially as she talked a lot about the act of writing and making the choice between writing something as nonfiction (she comes from a military family) or fiction.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who seems to act in a film about every family tragedy I've lived through (Mysterious Skin was so incredibly hard, so moving, and he did such an amazing job) was stunning in the film as a soldier who just can't live outside of war but is dishonorably discharged. Reminded me way too much of my brother. He was also on hand to answer questions from the audience.

It tired me out so much, I'm still pretty dazed. A lot is going through my mind right now. I figured, with a film on such subject matter I'd be jarred, and I'm already on edge. But, sometimes it's worth it. Sometimes, when I jar myself so much, a little bit of truth, a little memory, a little understanding ekes out.

I'm so not spell-checking this.

Something Different - Writing Stuff

2007-11-07T08:57:00.000-05:00

Picture from:http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Circo_noche_gijon_08_octubre_2005.jpg

For some reason I feel like this post should be in the form of a letter:

From the Desk of Victorya Chase

To Whom it May Concern:

Attached please find excerpts from stories I will probably never finish writing. In fact, both of these are the same story. I just can't figure out how to tell it. I tend to lose steam by page five or six, but how much does that matter?

You see, one of the defining moments, if I was to beleive that one moment can define a person, which I don't, but society (or at least television) seems to think it's all one moment that changes a person, not a thousand little ones that get lumped together by a mind that would rather remember one thing than a thousand, was when a friend and I ran off with the circus. I've always wanted to mine it, to see what happened, to go back and answer those literary questions - what was my motivation? How did the protagonist (that's me) grow? If the world doesn't revolve around the protagonist (me) then how come in memory prophetic fallacy (or is it pathetic fallacy?) seems to be so evident. It's sunny when she's happy, when I remember riding in the car. Then there are periods of rain.

At the risk of making this a long letter, one that probably has already been tossed by your interns anyway, please read the attached.

Sincerely,

Victorya Chase

enc. 2

(sorry, this will be a long post. I saved up all the words from my photo posts apparently. Actually, no, I'll post the second version another time.)

Version 1 excerpt:

(Note, this is about the third or fourth paragraph in)

We lived on a small side street across from the college – Mother, Johnny, and I plus two stray cats. Johnny and I were scared of Mother – secretly calling her “Marine Mama.” She was a living Golem – hard as clay despite her girth and always speaking the words of others. She took the Bible literally when it came to discipline – we had welts sprouting like weeds from our legs and arms. There is no arguing with stone, nor any chance for understanding. Her cold poured forth like the vapors from an open fridge and there wasn’t a place Johnny and I knew where we could hide from her. There also wasn’t any reason for us to think this wasn’t how a parent was supposed to behave. This was the way life had always been.

Our father was left behind in Arizona when I was seven. I never knew him to begin with, though the scar on my lip reminded me there were some people in life we don’t need to know. Johnny was still pining for his father, but family secrets spiraled around their history. He dreamt of a father that loved him and could save him, but Mother would always come around with the court papers at such moments to show him why this dream was a fantasy, and fantasies were against the Bible. Still, Johnny cried when he received word that our father wanted nothing to do with us, the words slipping from Mother’s tongue.

* * *

(This is the last of it so far, I'm skipping to the sixth page, when I'm sent to go work outside the circus tents)

The heat was so strong you could smell it, though I’m sure I was really just smelling the animals that paced on the pavement and the sweat glistening on every worker in the circus that dutifully put up tent after tent and pole after pole. Each of them worked, eyes cast down to the pavement to avoid the sunlight. None of them had hats on, and their skin was baked a golden brown. Every once in a while I caught a glance in my direction. My shirt was reflecting the light as quickly as the asphalt was absorbing it. It shone with each movement, I had to be careful – light had already bounced into my eyes and green circles now dotted my line of vision. A couple of people had filled out applications while asking me questions about the circus. They were regulars – someone could fill out an application every thirty days. Sometimes I let them do it earlier, if I had a good premium, and would just hold the application until the system would accept it again. In this heat, the soda was the best premium we’d had – a whole six-pack too.

I had to use the walkie-talkies twice before lunch-time, the heat was unforgiving.

Victorya Chase Goes To Therapy

Long Time No See

Chicken Soup For the Soul

UPDATE

Big Brothers, Big Sisters Program

Dental Woes Continue and Last Meeting

Long Time No See

It’s a Good Thing

The Cats of My Life: Bobo

What's On My Mind

Contact

Owning Your Shadow

Happy New Year!

Just a quick note

*Sniff* Time To Go Back To Work

I Can Walk!

ARGH!

Another Day, Another Doctor's Appointment

Family Reunion? No Time Soon

Follow-up

Johnny Appleseed

The Day After

Tomorrow. . .

What Would Jesus Buy

Stop-Loss

Something Different - Writing Stuff

Sniff Time To Go Back To Work