I’d love to be able to get ahold of Jake Gyllenhaal. What a minute, let me rephrase that. I mean, of course I’d love to get ahold of him; have you seen those big dreamy eyes and those perfectly pouty lips? So yes, I would LOVE to get a hold of Jake Gyllenhaal, but I’d really like to get in CONTACT with him and tell him thanks for what he’s done. Jake G has really and truly cured me of a long-standing childhood trauma.
I’ve had a little crush on Jake for a while now. When a co-worker heads out for lunch they’ll ask if I need anything, and I’ll reply “number 4 with extra hot peppers, and Jake Gyllenhaal please. Or if they’re out of peppers, just Jake is fine”. I haven’t stalked him in a parking lot, or posted his picture all over my walls, or sent him phone messages with my boobs in the file (because honestly, my boobs are pretty awesome and he should have the opportunity to experience them first hand really). (also I don’t have his number, any help with that is appreciated)
But I happened across this image of Jake and an axe.
Now what the hell is this for?
I suppose a hard core Gyllenhaaler would know exactly what this still is about, or promoting, or how it makes sense in the grand scheme of life. The image on its own is quite worthy of hanging in my room, so maybe I should start a pin-up collection, but the point for me is the axe.
I have written some about my shaky childhood traumas in my blog “Accidental Happiness” via wordpress, so people familiar with my blog know about alcoholism in my family, violence, insanity and other mayhem, and how I have coped with those issues and turned out a relatively sane and happy human being. And they have probably read about the axe.
When I was twelve, someone I adored and trusted completely attacked me with an axe. This person didn’t actually strike or dismember me, but he came within an inch or two of my body while swinging an axe full force, and he was a pretty strong, large man compared to my skinny twelve year old frame. So for the next hundred years of my life I’ve had issues with axes. This fear makes it pretty frustrating to watch movies that fall in the Horror genre, because inevitably there will be an axe involved somewhere. “One out of four horror movies must contain an axe” I think is how the Hollywood handout reads. So movies like the remake of Amityville Horror with Reynolds – beefy and handsome as he is – pretty much stop my brain and I leave the room in terror. And even in movies where the axe is just being used as an axe, to bust something open or to actually chop wood instead of chopping up bodies or opening skulls…I still have the mental freak outs and turn into a pile of weird afterwards.
But here is this beautiful image of Jake: a strong, handsome, interesting, probably kind and thoughtful human being. And he’s holding my arch nemesis, the dreaded axe. This image should give me the throw ups, or send me into hysterics, or unnerve me for a good day or two. But with all of that long-leggedness and fierce manliness he’s got going, he also has this ever-present Jake quality of chill. Good guy. Centered wise being thing. And I find I don’t want to run away in fear. I’m actually wanting to look at this beautiful human being, holding the scariest of things I have ever known, and think of what men are SUPPOSED to be like. Not creepy and dangerous, but glorious and capable. Not violent, chaotic and murderous, but protective, vital and healthy.
This might just be my favorite picture of all time now, of anyone, anywhere – because Jake Gyllenhaal has me thinking in a whole new way…maybe weapons are only as scary as the hands that hold them.
Today has been a bust so far.
i woke up with the roosters because i have a mess in my mouth. my tooth has convinced itself that its having a mental breakdown, so i drove out to a clinic this morning, where you can sort of sit around and HOPE that someone else calls to cancel their appointment. of course, that didn’t happen, AND i forgot some paperwork i needed, and on the way home from this non-appointment i drove my car into a curb. CURBY!!
then had to drop off some items at the library drop box – which almost ate my arm off – and of course i had them – WHERE do you think? in the back seat. so i’m out of my seat belt, emergency brake on since i’m driving stick, and leaning over backwards to get these bloody books, almost pop my spine out, almost have my hand removed, then drive off with my brake still on!
now to call a mysterious company that is phoning me at work, at the wrong number, and i don’t know what it’s about. i go to the website info they left, which looks shady as all get out, and when i call the woman wants my social security number right over the phone. hmmmm…so after i try to get some information from her she says – very authoritatively, mind you – well i told you i’m Christy from Such-and-Such. oh good! that’s MUCH better, here is my life savings along with the keys to my home, car, and the safety deposit box. come on over any time! and by the way, why don’t you send some nice black flowers to my ex-boyfriend in my name on my credit card, while you are sending me off to the poor house.
oh wait, i already seem to live there!
ugh. this day should have been spent in bed.
or Why I Must Never Be Angry
There are several emotional states that are universally known to man, regardless of race, religion, education or overdue fines from the library; Fear and Anger are just two of them. But today proves to me why I have a longstanding Fear of becoming Angry.
I started off this morning in a testy sort of way. I had a weird dream last night, that involved a lot of running from people, hiding, trying to avoid being initiated into the sex-slave-trade business, and breaking through windows to escape from crazy men. Clearly, waking up I was a little off my center, and slightly touchy all morning. When I got to work I was sort of in a panic state, with my heart beating hard, my breathing exaggerated and difficult, and sort of shaky. Not just because of the dream, but because I actually HAVE done a lot of running, hiding, and avoiding in my life, and be reminded in my sleep is not a ton of fun.
I told my co-worker I was grumpy. She nonchalantly smiled at me and said, “OK”. Whew. One down, 700 more to go. Cause it being a Saturday, I was fairly likely to encounter that approximate number of people in the next six hours. Right away my foul mood seemed to impact my environment. My other co-workers said it had been fairly slow all morning, however as soon as I clocked in things starting going haywire. Lines of people came out of nowhere, strange requests popped up having to do with people losing their pants, and suddenly I was re-reminded that it was in the Full Moon bracket (two days either side of the full, and the full, and sometimes I throw in a few extra days when lingering effects still persist). Then one of our computers froze.
“This is your doing”, was sort of the message I got from my boss. I couldn’t deny it, really. I have been known to set car alarms off just from walking by. I stood next to a computer one day minding my own business, and it hopped off it’s ledge and started smoking when it hit the countertop. When I’m in a good mood things can go really smoothly; all the lights suddenly turn green when I’m driving along the road; my sports teams win as long as I cheer them on. Of course, if I have to go to the bathroom they will suddenly throw an interception, but when my mood is high, I seem to be able to impact things around me. And the reverse is true as well.
Which is why I tried very hard to never be angry. People will tell me that anger is just an emotion, and it doesn’t matter if I’m angry, because everyone is at some point. But they haven’t seen the things that happen when I’m in a bad mood;
like things breaking for no reason all around me, or clocks and computers seizing up, or … well, today, when all hell breaks loose as soon as I come to work. So yeah, my big Fear is my Anger; I’m kind of afraid of being some sort of a Stephen King novel,
or horror movie character. I’m like, “don’t make me angry…you wouldn’t like me when i’m angry”
I’m tired today.
My body feels like it’s forgotten to sleep for about forty years, and it’s finally realized this omission.
But my heart feels this way today as well. Like my heart is walking down a lonely, rainy street and spies something, and bends down to pick it up. My heart looks curiously at this newfound thing, but doesn’t seem to know what it is. My heart rolls this thing around in its hand, and it feels uncomfortable. It hurts. It’s sharp and painful. It makes my heart sad. My heart doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t recognize it, but puts this thing in its pocket and continues on its way, until it finds something else that makes it sad, and lonely, and confused.
And with pockets full of unknown sorrows, my heart continues its journey, crying as it goes.
Two years ago (I think it was two) I was diagnosed with DID. And getting myself to accept this was a piece of work, I have to say. But I think I’ve also mentioned that my first diagnosis of DID was in 1995. I refer to my situation as “my system” (although Team Denelle might be more exciting; reminds me of when we had “Team Jolie” and “Team Aniston”. i was definitely Team Jolie. i like to run with the dark side) anyway, I call this whole business my “system”. Right? Because sometimes my sister will be talking to me, and I’m looking at her with a quizzical expression, and she says to me, “well I talked to one of you about this yesterday”, or “oh, it may not have been you I told this to”. That kind of thing. And I get mad at her. “Stop saying that! It’s ALL me!” Because it is all me. But she’s right, too.
Because she will tell me conversations we had the day before and I have no bloody idea what she’s talking about. I FEEL like I’m myself, but I’m actually not the same person that she talked to, so I don’t have access to those memories. I think I’ve mentioned that it’s like a Chinese Fire Drill. I have all these personalities in the same car, but not everyone is driving at the same time. Some are asleep, or doing I don’t know what, while others might be complaining about what I’m doing, while some of us are “driving” the body or navigating. Is this confusing?
Take work, for example. I might go to work as a certain person – the Driver personality, who likes to work her fingers to the bone and hardly ever take a break. But other people in ‘the System’ might want to come out, so they surface. And now I might be at work but be a ten year old kid, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do at my desk. Or I might be both a ten year old and another personality at the same time, while my Driver personality is trying to get these kids to behave so she can get back to work. It’s complicated.
Anyway, my question to my self, to my System is, where is this original diagnosee? Someone was going to a therapist back in the day, and someone sat in the office and heard that she had Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID, or MPD. She accepted this diagnosis – presumably – because she then told a very dear friend. And then what? Because the System seemed to evaporate that information, and it was completely unknown to me until this friend told me that this had happened fifteen years ago. So where has this side of myself been for fifteen years? Just hiding out in my brain or body? Has this person popped out in my life somewhere, unbeknownst to me? I completely don’t remember the situation that my friend told me about, are there other things I don’t remember from that time? Or that personality? Where has this missing time gone?
I know I’ve spoken about these issues before (Wild Child) but it’s a strange, bizarre, troubling thing, this amnesia I have. It makes me confused and curious about my life. It makes me wonder and question and unsure about my reality. I don’t really know WHO I am. Because I’m more than what I have come to think of as myself. And even that is suspect, because sometimes I think I’m myself, but my therapist or my sister will say I’m behaving differently, and in a different personality than I had thought I was. My people in my System are a mystery to me, and I must continually find ways to explore and uncover.
I always wanted to be an Egyptologist and go on digs to uncover old artifacts, languages, secrets of another life. I guess I’ve gotten my wish; I’m just a Denelleiologist instead.
When I was thirteen I tried to kill myself. I was in seventh grade the first time I tried, and just continued dabbling with the idea off and on for a year or so. I’d probably been suicidal for a while; and at the very least depressed for a good many years. The first time I actually remember trying to cut myself I was around five, and stood in the kitchen by myself with a butter knife, ready to do some serious arterial damage. Of course, it would have taken me an awfully long time to draw blood with a butter knife, but look, I was only five, I wasn’t schooled in the proper techniques of murder and suicide. By the time I was in seventh grade I’d at least figured out that I should use some type of sharp instrument. Had my family made more money, I might have had a nice little razor blade to injure myself with. As it was, my family was on the poor side, so we had nothing but disposable razors in the house.
There I was, with my little pink Daisy razor with the flowers all over it, slicing away at my wrists, getting the feel of suicide in my bones. The skin cut easier than I thought, and hurt less than I expected. The slight sting was more tantalizing than scary, and the blood oozing out was rather intoxicating. These first few times I cut were more flirtations with danger than real attempts at death, but they got me hooked fast. The adrenaline in my body, the tension in my muscles, the power I felt over SOMETHING in my life was a sort of intense little window of possibility, where the world lay open for me, and it was MY choice to live or expire. In my world, having a choice was not common. Tempting myself with death became a particularly seductive past time. It meant freedom.
I began cutting my ankles along with my wrists. The veins on my ankles were puffy and prominent, and I began to imagine that if I managed to kill myself this way, perhaps I would end up in the local news as some sort of two minute celebrity for a bizarre and tragic departure. Girl dies at age 13, wrists and ankles bloody pulps. I also took pills, though, because I wasn’t just into cutting. I actually did want to get out of my life situation, and if that meant getting out of life, I was amenable to that.
If I had known back then how bizarre and interesting my life would be, I can’t say for sure that I would have made the same decisions. Today it is raining heavily, the cloud cover so dark it feels like it is nine o’clock at night, when it is only lunch time for me. There is a dark, moody feel about the day; somber, pensive, romantically deep. My life is full of these moments – full of intensely beautiful days where the sky is so blue it hurts my mind, and the contentment in my heart seems unique to humanity. There are days where I feel desolate, empty, unloved and barren. Days that I wonder how anyone can choose to love me because I am such a challenge and an emotional roller coaster.
But this is life. Up, down, inside, outside, colorful, dark, dramatic, silly, intense, monotonous, and spectacular. Every year the trees change colors before my eyes in a wonderful parade of life and death. Every year the sun comes back in the spring, coaxing hiding animals and tiny buds on trees to burst open with hope and life, and continue the cycle that has been going forever.
Had I known about these wonders when I was thirteen – about broken hearts and dreams dashed to pieces; about disappointments and sorrows, love lost and love expiring; about passion and desire and intimacy; about laughter and acceptance and people that love you enough to talk to you in the morning when you have Christopher Walken hair – I would have laid my Daisy razor down in the shower, and kept it for shaving. I would have spared my skin the worry and nervousness. I think. Because life is hard, and wicked, difficult and damaging. But the beauty in life – and the POTENTIAL beauty – is worth the risk.
Life is an accidental and beautiful happiness.
In the dead of the night
while children are sleeping
I walk the wet grass
on tip-toeing feet.
Deep into the labyrinth
I fly like an angel
guided by starlight,
spurred on by heat.
My hair is a comet
that streams out behind me
The wings that I wear
are a gossamer white.
I chase down your shadow
and run from your memory
I drink to your fortune
and succumb to my plight.
I pour out my heart
and leave it before you
A scattering of breadcrumbs
to show you the way.
I sit in the center
of my dark, empty labyrinth
I call out your name
and bid you to stay.
the skin is so tender there,
so soft, so smooth.
i’m surprised at how easily it
opens for me.
like grating cheese
or cutting off a pat of butter.
it just opens up ~
and offers my inner secrets to
the bathroom tile.
and out seep my skeletons,
and cascade to my feet
like a little gothic convention
gathering in the night.
drip. drip. drip.
down to the ground
as though they have jumped from the
into the sea of grief
which is myself
and my skin.
and my bathroom floor.
which is now collecting these
secretive, skeletal remains
and is busy hiding the secrets
in cracks and
a splash here, a splash there,
a little sticky clump on the
it clumps up so fast, into
stringy little ropes, which makes
me wonder ~
are the skeletons trying to
form a rope on purpose?
are they trying to climb back
into my head to keep
hiding from the world?
or are they just trying to kill me?
‘cuz i can do that myself.
I’ve been involved in a number of dangerous and life threatening situations. I’ve had someone choke me. I’ve had someone threaten to slit my throat open with a knife. I’ve been pinned to the wall. I’ve been hit in the face. I’ve had the aforementioned axe incident, where I was attacked by a man swinging an axe at me. I’ve been accosted in a public place, and THEN pinned to a wall. I’ve been pinned to the ground and assaulted. And all of this by different people, so it’s not like I got a handle on who was the consistent, reliable perpetrator. Soon, EVERYONE was a possible perpetrator. And eventually I learned not to allow my back to people. Because now my fear is that I will be attacked. It’s not like a conscious fear I’ve been aware of. All of these situations happened before my adult life, so I developed an undercurrent of thinking that involved people wanting to kill me. Because it seemed like that was the big thrill everyone wanted to get in on. So I became afraid of sitting with my back to people in a restaurant. I became nervous riding full busses. I heightened my awareness and threw up a bunch of walls, and tried to be sure I could see everything around me when at all possible. At least this way if some giant of a man comes at me wielding a sharp instrument I will be ready. This time I will be prepared to die.
Even with all of this vigilance, I haven’t been able to necessarily fend off the death threats. I’ve had two people talk about killing me while I was at my workplace. And several stalkers in my time. And now I’m being asked to sit at my obviously inferior workspace and allow the world to come and slit my throat from behind.
So I’ve been having numerous meltdowns. I cry all the time. I almost fainted at work when I showed my sister my horrid little hovel. My heart rate has been incredibly off the charts for days now. I’m twitchy and nervous and fearful. I hyperventilate when I’m brushing my teeth in the bathroom. And lying on the couch. And making a sandwich. I’m soft and sullen and wounded. I have a perpetual woeful look on my face. Or I think I do…I haven’t been looking in the mirror a lot, but the facial muscles I’m using FEEL woeful. Yes I know, they’ve told me they will work on it. It is hopeful that I will be able to turn my desk a different direction, even though I was told this was NOT possible the day they told me about this whole situation. So maybe it won’t be as bad as it was presented to me. Maybe after a while I will realize that the situation isn’t horrible at all, and I just worked myself up into a lather over the idea of imminent death, when the Death wasn’t really knocking at my door at all. It was just the Avon lady, maybe, with my order of frizzy hair control product.
Still, for the past five days I have been a bundle of nerves. Which just makes me have to run to the bathroom to get sick. Oh yeah! This might be one of my alters, and I don’t know if I’ve mentioned her or not yet. Nervous Nellie. Hi, glad to meet you. If you couldn’t tell, Nervous Nellie has had plenty of things to be nervous about, and now she gets to go to work in this state of anxiety and tension, and try to perform menial tasks and duties, like walking and getting a drink of water.
On the positive side, I have been wanting to learn to let people in to my life, my world, and my heart. I wasn’t planning on doing that by becoming a vulnerable, messy, wreck of a human right in front of everyone I work with, but there you go. Now the poison’s out of the bottle, it’s not like I can shove it back in.