PTSD Barbie V

This weekend found Hubs and I with enough time for grown-up dialog while the siblings enacted my vision of the wrap-around porch we had built around the new manufactured house. As hoped, the children are investing considerable joyful energy chasing each other in the 300 foot covered circle. That circle gives us more porch than house and it fits our lifestyle beautifully. Our houses hold our things far more than our lives.

When I introduced him to the PTSD Barbie psychosis, his mind jumped to personify the allegory with a woman from the gated community he grew up with whom I hung out during the years we came closest to visiting divorce lawyers. No, he didnae know the woman. It was a BIG sleeper suburb. The refugees from that gilded war zone had assembled near the same university he did. I donae care to do the research, but I do believe they might be the biggest refugee colony in that fair university/tourist town. It was still a town when that particular colony settled, but. . . Progress has arrived. It is a metroplex now. 

I was greatly humored by the personification. This particular Drama Queen (a title she was attempting to develop in that metroplex's thriving theater scene) was so saturated with gift dolls that she used them in macabre dramatic enactments. In her life, girlie gifts were in league with her father's gift tie collection. "Smile nice and appreciate the thought, Dear." The Drama Queen (her chosen title) was quite solidly a silver platter refugee. She is the very person who gave me that term for the relentless stream of rich kids who had attached to me over the years. I have been less than thrilled with their attachments. They have the manners of entitled baracudas. Get your teeth out of my ass, Titty Baby. The more I abuse them, the tighter they bite. She very much considered the gated community she and my husband grew up in to be a War Zone, both literally and figuratively. Don't let the satin sheets fool ya. . . My FIL's gun collection was far from the most impressive weapons collection in the idyllic suburban sleeper community. Covert war is still war. She loved my insistence that "WAR" is an acronym for, "We Are Right." I donae believe Hubs ever met this woman, but I love telling stories about her. I hope she found her break in the performing arts. Just hoping. . . We parted ways on a spittle sprayed scene from her Drama Queen script.

The women Hubs and I know together whom I am calling "PTSD Barbies" are the elder sibling I call, "Pimp Sis" here in this journal and the wife who died with our son in September's fatal car wreck.. Neither woman is in any danger of being nominated for the cover of any fashion magazine. Both women lived their lives as social rejects. Those Barbie dolls were their social role models. Their childhoods held far more trauma than comfort. Pimp Sis's ex-collection is nothing shy of elaborate. DIL was still on her first husband, but she was ex-talking with ample support from her E-friends. In the flesh, she never met a person she couldnae alienate, sooner or later. Today's savior is tomorrow's abuser.

From my nerdy place in this psychotic, strictly personal puppet show in my head, I'm still trying to get Pimp Sis's kleenex-stuffed bra off my chest. I am psychotically uncertain whether I am speaking literally or figuratively on that psycho score. The personification of the puppets in my head is a tactic my shrinks advised against and I still havenae disregaurded their opinions. Alas, I am desperate enough to work AMA. Psychotic evolutions donae seem to have birthdays or anniversaries, but my early, compulsive forrays into this therapy exercise were at least two decades ago. It has been at least that long since my last formal therapy session. I have discussed the phenom with more than one noodle in my pro alphabet soup. Whatever the evers of those statistics, The PTSD Barbie puppet show seems to be organizing enough that I can visualize *their* stage and shut them up by yelling, "QUIET ON THE SET! ! !"

Anybody need further proof of just how crazy I really am? I is what I is and I isn't what I isn't.