Should I embrace the "Victim" label? It was suggested at my very first therapy session in May of 1972. It is, without question, the most recurring question in the 43 years of recovery work since, in rapid cycling Psychiatric terminology, of course. I allow myself the right to make whatever translations I need to accomplish continuity in my healing path. The linguistic evolution from "White Trash Whore" to "cPTSD" has been at least as colorful as the whispers of Junior High School students feeling their first biological imperatives toward the gender(s) of their natural, adult inclination. The need to process the memories fully has reached me at a Faith level. The need to allow myself to honestly feel the resulting emotions, as well.

Victim?

I reveled in the power I had over grown-ups of both genders when I started using my prematurely developed sexual gifts. I understood that power instinctively and still believe that denying that understanding is like letting a 2 year old pretend a live nuclear warhead is an e-toy. I was the hottest totty on the child pornography set. Shirley Temple in a g-string. My mutism only made me sexier in the Happy Days circles. Okay, okay. . . A responsible parent would have taken that warhead away from their toddler and locked it in a remote location instead of using it to pay rent. The long-term consequences were, indeed, devastating and far from sustainable. Far more than even the most culturally aware Ivy League prodigy can understand, much less a disposable child.

Role playing is one of the therapy tools which has grown large (health benefits still under review) place in my strictly personal tool box. The beaten crazy bitch wolf is the persona in which I find myself most able to see myself as a victim. Don't ask me to roll over and expose my belly in this persona. A wounded wolf is a dangerous animal to the very last breath. Wolves mate for life and bond deeply with their off-spring. A natural wolf pack is essentially what sociologists call, "A nuclear family." You don't want to mess with my pack, no matter how angry I am with any given member(s) at the moment. When I play with pagan theology, I feel the wolf as my earth spirit. I sure do hate allot of the human folklore about my earth spirit. Extremely misleading. . . Especially the ones about wolf sexuality. Keep your metaphors off of my nature!!! Remaining teeth exposed in opinionated clarity. . . Thinning grey hackles in matching formation. . .

But that is role-playing. Emphasis on, "Playing." DID is nowhere to be found in my psycho baggage car. All my "dids" are typed in lower-case.

When I play my human Grammy role, there is not a fiber of my being which can embrace a beaten crazy bitch wolf in the nursery. Get ye back to nature, bitch! Stay there for however long it takes to remember your human nature.

Time goes on. My senior teats keep me well-protected from the 21st century predators who "loved" their Shirley Temple in a g-string. I revel in that protection. For my hyper-vigilant conditioning, my wrinkles are a true and great blessing. Best prophylactic ever!! Don't youthenize me! I like being old, aches and all!! Sincerely.

Here in the 21st century, the roles which make me feel most victimized are, "Mother" and "Mother-in-law." Both roles make me feel like the Toxic People Landfill is the only proper place for me. I feel far more stereotyped in those roles than I remember being stereotyped as a "White Trash Whore." Bad GIRLS get to go some incredibly neat places. A gilded cage seems to be the best human culture can offer on old mother. Is there a culture on the planet which has good things to say about the Mother-in-law?

Victimized like an old beaten crazy bitch wolf?

Sorting. . . Feeling pretty strong today. I am half-way to my wolf mate's side. He has already put the wine bottle on ice. The gang blamers have respectfully asked to borrow his truck so they can begin moving their precious thing piles out of our living space today.

Thoughts and reality checks respectfully requested.