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what’s your book cover

I’ve been having book covers and titles coming to me. What, if anything, I ever end up doing with them, it seems like part of my therapy to express them. What is your book cover?


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nursing my sanity

emotional memory

artist unknown

when i look at myself in the mirror, I frequently experience feeling suddenly exposed by my appearance. i have been out in the world looking like that, and no one said anything?

when i express myself, i frequently experience feeling suddenly mortified by what I have written or said. i shared that? what was i thinking?

I experience catastrophic self-doubt, humiliation, mortification.

it’s as if everyone can see right through the lie in me, what i am unknowingly trying to hide.

everyone knows but me, until the retrospect and i am aghast.

don’t look in the mirror,

and don’t present. just be.

that is my sanity.

my transparency & humility with all of this,

my acceptance of more than one Self and the fact that they disagree with, and contradict, each other sometimes,

my acceptance of the fact that i am not consistent and coherent —

that, is even more my sanity.

it’s so much more than vanity and being hard on myself; it’s a fluctuating sense of identity and confidence, that changes so drastically and frequently that i cannot keep up.

i can only accept this reality and live transparently with it.
view it with curiosity and share the adventure.

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your addiction is your ally — by Rob Brezney

I wrote Rob to ask his permission to post this masterpiece on addiction. His response was, “Sure! Sounds good. Rowdy blessings, Rob Brezsny.”

Your Addiction is Your Ally  

  —  by Rob Brezny

Your addiction is obstructing you from your destiny, and yet it’s also your ally.

What?! How can both be true?

On the downside, your addiction diverts your energy from a deeper desire that it superficially resembles. For instance, if you’re an alcoholic, your urge to get loaded may be an inferior substitute for and a poor imitation of your buried longing to commune with spirit.

On the upside, your addiction is your ally, because it dares you to get strong and smart enough to wrestle free of its grip; it pushes you to summon the uncanny willpower necessary to defeat the darkness within you that saps your ability to follow the path with heart.

(P.S. Don’t tell me you have no addictions. Each of us is addicted to some sensation, feeling, thought, or action, if not to an actual substance.)

Extol your sublime, painful addiction—celebrate it to death. Ride it, spank it, kiss it, whip it.

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willingness & radical acceptance

My dbt (dialectical behaviour therapy) group was talking about two subjects today that I find myself still talking about tonight.

The first was willingness vs. willfulness, where willfullness is the resistance we come up with to avoid change and trying new things. There was a true or false question: T or F — A person who is willful is trying to be argumentative and difficult on purpose. The answer of course is false, that there is deep and old pain and trauma in our resistance that is demanding to be heard. That to say that a willful person is trying to be difficult is not a compassionate or at all effective stance to take.

The second was radical acceptance. Ah yes. I was trying to explain what radical acceptance is to my Mom tonight, and came up with this:

  1. The ability to shift our expectations of a person or situation to see what is, instead of what we think should be, accept that reality, release the feelings of anguish.
  2. Accept what is by trusting that it is divine right action, guided by our higher power, who is always and forever looking after our highest purpose, greatest ultimate joy and satisfaction in life.

I think this definition is still in progress, but that’s it so far.

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snippets of today

One: feeling the unfelt feelings of previous dissociations. there is more to my step four. I became aware of this while down island this week, in a city that has lots of past times for me.  I was feeling all the feelings I hadn’t felt when i was living there. Even just a mundane memory of walking down the street was painful because i was feeling what i was dissociated from feeling at the time. the degree of loneliness, sadness and simultaneous pressure and anxiety was almost unbearable; but at the time, I unfortunately survived by not feeling it, not recognizing it for what it was, thinking everyone felt this way, thinking it would go away if i didn’t look at it, and just kept moving. thinking no one knew when i covered it up. all the times i covered it up; i need to admit these to myself. all the times i betrayed, sabotaged and isolated myself by not being honest about what i was feeling. there is shame there, and a few dozen truckloads of sorrow.

Two: being alone for thanksgiving, not wanting to spend time with Mom.  staying focused on making some food, freezing some food, re-organizing closets, relaxing, catching up with a few long-distance friends. keeping my days balanced. it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. i don’t have to freak out that its a holiday and everyone else is living life as a family, and I am living life alone.   stay in the moment. participate in the celebration in my own way, any way, despite not having a family. i am still valid and worthy of love.

[Image courtesy of arquazuarma]


the club

I’m posting this excerpt from another amazing piece of writing by Molly Wolf in her book Angels & Dragons: On Sorrow, God, and Healing. With love, to all my fellow members of the Club:

Excerpt from The Club, a short story by Molly Wolf:

Susan knew that her normal was gone; she could never get back what she’d lost in that split second when the world exploded. She knew that she’d have to build a new normal from scratch – new habits, new spaces, new community – instead of staying frozen, looking back at what she had lost. She could help in the struggle to set her church building to rights, but it’s not the church it was before, and she is not the woman who worshipped there before. In this life, those yards of scars will always be on her hide, just as the face of her town will never be as it was. But there was this comfort: that she belonged to a whole secret society that knew exactly how it felt, and that could offer love.

People join the club through all sorts of experiences, some obvious, some not. For very many, it’s not one huge big horror; it’s a whole succession of small big horrors, one intolerable thing after another that you have to tolerate because you have absolutely no choice in the matter. I don’t know how the Vietnam vets get by, the ones who had it real bad. How do they get through the day, living with the flashbacks, the sense of helplessness, the anxiety, the fits of rage? – all the woundedness of a soul who should never have seen this shit, never been forced into this situation. Some must have found it easier to die, literally or in spirit; others snapped and went into darkness and did things that they probably will never be able to remember, because some things you just can’t handle.

For still others, it’s just one damn thing after another: a friends death after a bankruptcy after a parent’s severe illness after a cancer scare after a child going off the rails after a job downsizing, until the whole world just looks like one door slamming after another. You might go under; or you might deny that anything’s wrong at all. Or you might give up and join the club.

But for every big-bang trauma, there’s probably another case that doesn’t make any noise at all, other than the occasional smashed dish or shouting match and a whole lot of quiet sobbing. Oh, there may be the occasional explosion, enough to keep you scared and wary and to cause long-term changes to your adrenaline levels, but that’s not how the real harm happens. Instead, it comes on so slowly that you don’t even realize what’s happening. It’s apt to be a series of small things, little surrenders, compromises that seemed not so bad at the time; it’s only looking back that you see how they all added up. At the time, it all seemed so trivial that you never thought to challenge what was happening, and besides, as time went on, you lost your energy and confidence, one nibble at a time. That’s when the evil becomes the wallpaper of your life, stuff you don’t even really notice anymore because you’re so used to it. It’s now normal, and you no longer think to question it. You can be blown up, or you can die of repeated wounds. Or you can be chilled to death almost without knowing it at all.

However it happened, big or small, loud or quiet, you find yourself joining the club. At least your fellow members are apt to understand and to welcome you with open arms. In the club, people don’t compare and dismiss; they are uninterested in the hierarchy of suffering (“My pain is bigger’n your pain!”). They respect each other’s experience too much for that. They know that there are scars and scars, and some you wear on the outside, like Susan, and others you wear on the inside, also like Susan. they know that enough small wounds over enough time leave just as many yards of stitches. They don’t need you to be whole and fully functional and just fine. It almost doesn’t matter where you are, because they’ve been through equivalent landscapes—and you may learn to your humility that some have been through much, much worse.

Susan says, “The funny thing is that you can almost tell when meeting someone whether or not they have gone through the horrible initiation rites … People who have been initiated into the trauma club are unafraid to face someone else’s pain.” Their response to it is simply to put their arms out, because they know that’s what they needed – to have that warm blue sweater wrapped about their bleeding shoulders, to be cared for by the compassion of strangers. But members don’t push and they don’t ask questions and they don’t demand to see the stitches, because they also remember how that felt.

They know the secondary hurts. They know the deep shame of having to deal with fits of rage or anxiety that pop up like sudden zits on a teenaged brow. They know how it feels to live with physical disabilities in a culture that unsexes and depersonalizes the ill – how to live with obvious scarring in a world that pays thousands of dollars to airbrush Michelle Pfeiffer’s face for a magazine cover shot. They know just how it feels to be stared at in an airport, how to handle the dumb comments: “Are you a Vietnam vet? Well, you know, you folks just overreacted.” “You say you lived for years with spousal abuse? Well, what stopped you from leaving?” “There’s nothing to stop losers like that Harry from going out and getting a job, even if he did go through a tough time. Sitting around all day, claiming he’s depressed. Huh.” Sightseers in dark glasses stop by the site of the Murrah Building and take snapshots of each other, smiling and waving for the camera. And, of course, there’s the stubborn universal human instinctive belief that bad luck must be self-inflicted and might possibly be contagious—that it’s better to avoid the walking wounded and hang out with the lucky, beautiful, and fortunate, because you have to be careful about what might rub off on you. That’s one good thing about being in the trauma club. You know what bullshit that is, and so do the people who have put their arms around you.


But the chief glory of joining the trauma club is that it takes you into deserts where you have never been, and it lets you find the fruits and the sudden pools of fresh water. For Jesus had it right: blessed are the uncertain, blessed are those that mourn, blessed are the poor. Not because suffering is a good thing in and of itself, but because it does tend to clear the decks.

So there you are, newly inducted into the club, standing at the edge of the wilderness in your undershorts or slip, shivering and bewildered, still in shock, perhaps, looking into no future that you’d ever dreamed of imagining. If you had any notion that you could control your circumstances, put it dow right here. that, like so many other things, has been blown off and away from you like the buttons from Susan’s suit jacket.

You must take the desert on its own terms and adapt to it, living with and through it as Moses and his people did for forty years; as Jesus did for forty days, wrestling with the darker sides of being human. You’ll learn very quickly that much of what you thought important isn’t. Networking doesn’t work here; power plays are of no conceivable interest. Career moves – what career? Why would that matter? All the clichés that used to entice, notions of being faster and shrewder and more fashionable than your peers – these shrivel and curl up like withered chiles. They’re as useful in the desert as a silver-plated cake plate.

But other things, things that you took for granted or didn’t think important, start becoming all-consuming: love, honesty, family, community, vulnerability, your own need to give and accept care, your essential powerlessness, that sense that someone’s there, looking after you. You think about things that you’d never though of before: who am I, really? who’s my God? why did all this happen? and what am I going to make of it all?

Look around you. You are walking on known trails that other pilgrims have taken. They knew where to find the fruit and springs of fresh water that can sustain you even through a long, long journey. And some of them are with you now, other members of the club. They know you; they know to count up from the bottom, not down from the top. Some days, you’re almost normal. Some days, you aren’t. Some days, with luck and hard work, you may just about manage to get your shoes tied, and that’s true victory. And they know that too.

What you carry into the desert is your soul, the one and only thing you can take on this journey. When you reach the other side—and you may not; you may choose to stay here, as many do – you’ll find that that soul has changed. It’ priorities are different. It knows what gold is real and what’s just pretty pyrite. It holds tight to love, and to it the world is so very full of beauty, as well as suffering.

Susan writes of living vita brevis—living with the knowledge that life is brief.

To live vita brevis means to count as precious the days remaining. you do not know when the end will come. We just went to work that morning. 169 people did not come home that evening, and for countless others, life will never ever be the same. I don’t have time to waste. It has made a difference to how I order my work and my personal life. Interesting, because I find myself wanting every minute at work to make a difference, yet on a personal level, “wasting time” with family and friends seems more important than anything else.

…I think of some of the profound tender acts shown to me that will stay with me and affect my relationship with that person forever. To be the recipient of that tender act sometimes causes me to perform a tender act with another person in another kind of trauma, and that interconnectedness plays on.

And that’s the final victory: that Evil can push a soul not off the edge, but into something deeper and holier than we could ever ask or imagine.

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a scan of my psyche this moment


  • embarrassment that i got so excited about the story of the Woman at the Well and sent it out to so many people, not realizing what a well-worn piece it is. “Sharing Remorse”. interesting to note a greater level of self-acceptance here than would have been present a year ago. acceptance that i am naive and easily influenced and excitable at times, with somewhat inconsistent boundaries.
  • hope of being validated and ending the confusion in me about ‘mental illness or chronic personal weakness’. call  me sick and twisted, but a Permanent Disability Designation would truly end it, and I feel like I could get on with my life with some degree of clarity about who i am. it’s scary how much weight my application has for me.
  • anxiety about that confusion, having had it stirred up today with my counselor, who said, “We all feel that way sometimes,” in an attempt to assure me that I’m not a complete wierdo. I’ve resolved that I need to tell her at my next appointment that I hear those statements as minimizing my illness, and wonder if she is trying to convince me that I’m not really ill at all. Back to the question:  Am I ill or just weak.
  • fear of abandonment / rejection from a community that has become important — this is residual because of a couple of experiences of extreme social anxiety i have had recently. did anyone see it? my gut says they did … shame, worthlessness, embarrassment, hopelessness.
  • sorrow, left-out, at not having attended what turned out to be a major social gathering last weekend. left-out that I wasn’t performing there with the others. reminding myself that the person who would have invited me to do so probably didn’t because she knows how easily exhausted i can get.
  • fear of the summer months, and the retirement of my current counselor in June. why is therapy not covered by any social assistance or disability funding?
  • a desire to find a new living arrangement, and the fear of change that brings.
  • awareness of emptiness
  • shame at staying up so late. a feeling of escape or existential anxst or something that wants to be expressed before I can let the day go.
  • guilt for not having called a couple of people who are dear to me. uncontrollable and unexplainable procrastination.


  • looking forward to a ballet class & singing tomorrow, and maybe catching up with a couple of friends on the phone.
  • residual joy from estuary i have been walking in.
  • looking forward to (although procrastinating) completing Step Four in CoDA.
  • joy at finding the site Daily Strength, an integrated forum for positive self-expression and recovery.
  • joy at the sound of crickets outside again, coming in through the walls and windows, the fact that the heater has been off all day in my room and the air smells like spring.