PTSD Barbie III

Again I find myself wishing for clarity in the big, sloppy of alphabet soup which my damaged memory has made of the many, many professionals who have been part of my long, tedious recovery from child prostitution/pornography. Who are those vague people behind the diplomas and acronymic job titles who referred me to the "Incest Survivor Support Groups?" How accurate are my memories surrounding the rage reflexes triggered by the empowered victims of those groups? My rage reflexes produce some of the most psychotic episodes in my psychobaggage car. I donae trust **ANY** of my own memories from my psychotic breaks. The victims of my rage are likely to have the more accurate memories. I was highly intoxicated on the all natural drugs of my psychotically over-developed survival instinct. My memories of my psychotic breaks are more etherreal than memories of nightmares I had in my sleep.

Leaving that unavailable information in its psychic broth for now, an unidentified quiet voice is gurgling from that broth that, despite culltural AssUMptions, there isnae a natural victim bone in my body. Me acting the victim is equivalent to putting a beaten crazy bitch wolf into sheep's clothing. Bye bye black sheep and all other sheep in the flock, too. Maybe the shepherd, as a snack. I doesnae think that hooked stick is gonna save ya. I'm psychotic, not stupid or physically disabled. All those poor little victim sheep in the flock arenae safe with me in my vulnerable states. My all-natural warrior instincts still feel the drive to protect those poor little victims. Flight in progress. . . Look out wilderness, here I come to lick my wounds and pray for healing.

I believe my 299 boot camp roommates were my first cognative exposure to the conflict between cultural stereotypes and feminine warrior instincts. That particular boot camp was the very last of the old Women's Army Corps. The next batch through those old barracks in Fort McClellan, Alabama was New Volunteer Army where the admission requirements for women were lowered to the point where an average woman could join the club. Of the HUGE body of women who took the admission tests the same day I did, two of us passed the muster. In the man groups, they checked pulses. Congratulations son. You're in. The old Women's Army Corps just might have been the largest body of geniuses ever assembled. As my tour of duty progressed, the gap between the WACs and the female NVA's grew quite evident. The 300 men to every woman ratio is quite difficult for your Average Jane. Empowered victim coming at ya! ! ! INCOMING! ! !

Still sorting. . .

It was glorius to see Big Bro and Big Sis playing happily together yesterday. They played with water color paints and the construction materials strewn about the yard from the porch construction works in progress rather than the gender specific toys in their respective bedrooms. The two of them share a magnificient aura when their bonds are strong and playful. Big Sis's princess costume now has a most unladylike layer of crud on it this morning.

My personal favorite definition of success is when I jump out of bed in the morning and exclaim, "Wow! ! ! I get to do **THAT** again!!!" This MLK school holiday morning I feel successful enough that I am tempted to bump the mood indicator up to the big "D" shaped grin. Donae believe I will, though. I amnae any longer welcome in the BP groups, but the manic euphoria which earned me a seat in those circles before *They* started testing for med compliance still worries me. Still saluting all nag flags.