PTSD Barbie IV

I have begun plying the finger-pointing exercise to my processing of my strictly personal PTSD Barbie psychosis. This is where I place an effigy of the latest person to trigger the strictly personal psychosis, point my hoary blame finger at the effigy and let my pain flow uncensored. When my venting runs out of steam, I lift my hand to peek at the three fingers pointed back at me. My pointing finger only assigns blame. The three fingers pointed back at me hold solutions. 

I am using one of Big Sis's Barbie dolls for the exercise. Secret Santa was so generous with the Barbies this year that she has yet to object when Baby Sis gets a hold on member of her massive Barbie collection and plies her strong, one-year-old pinchy fingers to the delicate ladies. This particular Barbie has lost her costume, so I donae know what she was empowered to be. Her red hair has been pulled partially free of the rubberbands, so the styling is especially creative. I think she is telling me that she is having a bad hair life. She is telling me I should join the exotic sex club because my interest in science and engineering is proof that I am at least a lesbian. Maybe even one of the transgender off-shoots. When she uses masculine pronouns to gossip about me, the single syllable pronouns carry the tonal emphasis of more than one syllable. In her honest opinion, my unfeminine interests are almost as socially devastating as her bad hair life.

Then we get to the Kiddie Whorehous Barbies. Yes, friends, Pimp Sis was one. She loved her Barbie dolls enough to steal them from more fortunate friends. I often wonder if her worship of that doll collection gave me a doll phobia. Her idol defenses were kiddie whorehouse mean and her extra 3 years made her significantly bigger than I for the years she maintained her Barbie Altar. It is quite possible that I remember that collection better than she does. Dunno. . . Information available but the price is higher than I am willing to pay. I havenae talked to her in over 20 years and even that encounter was brief and explosive. In the late 60's, when the sexual revolution was bringing the exotic sex clubs out of the closet, Pimp Sis and her cohorts found far more profit in soliciting the women newly emerged from the closet than in trying to force me into the traditional whore suits. There were plenty of takers. What's a lesbian, Mommy? Was Madame Currie a lesbian? Can I be Madame Currie when I grow up? My teacher says I can. For what it's worth, my mother thought I was a shoe-in for making Marie Curie look like a lazy housewife. She deeply grieved her inability to send me to college. My later perusals of Marie Curie's life find me in awe of her balance between her science and her children. My mother didnae know if she was a lesbian, but I donae believe so.

The GI Barbies I met in the Army play into this chaos, as well, but those are gentler, more humorous memories. No, dear, your perfect hair isnae safe out there with 300 men for every woman. Nor is your meticulous manicure. Are you sure you aren't New Volunteer Army? Your higher IQ required for the Women's Army Corps is well disguised. Never mind. Eurpope awaits. **I** gotta run. Hope ya get that pesky hangnail.

The vent seems to be running out of steam. I feel calmer and more focused for getting the vapors of that rot out of my system. Now to test the system by seeing if I can continue focusing on the here and now instead of getting lost in the psychotic fog of flashbacks, etc. 

Testing, 1, 2, 3. . . If and/or when this step holds, I will lift the hoary finger of blame to peek at the 3 fingers pointed back at me. We see what grows. Itsy bitsy baby steps. . . I donae expect this lifelong psycho snot knot to untangle instantly. Be patient with the process. Easy does it.

Again I wish for the rapid cycling icon while I settle for the median. I believe I am holding steady through the choppy sees.

Testing, 1, 2, 3. . .

Big Bro scored big time on the social development this weekend. He had his first school friend ever over for a sleep-over Friday night. The two families seem to be clicking. That body of details is still too emotionally charged for summary, but they bee the funnest processing that has been required yet on this little ship of fools. Works in progress. . .