A Self Explanatory (It is by the power vested in me as a trouble-making speaker of a living language that I use an adjective as a noun.) :-)

I have been too busy to spend much time online, but as I begin writing this Friday night, the husband and the children are at the movies and I am trying to get caught up on the laundry and some work in the kitchen. I have to get done what I can earlier than usual, because I will be too busy sleeping later on if the past two nights are any indication. For two nights in a row I have gone to sleep much earlier than normal, and without relying on pills or alcohol. My appetite has remained with me and... for the first time in three months - there has been (sex). Okay, so it did cause a nightmare, but it didn't freak me out and I went right back to sleep. I have been trying to gather my thoughts to figure out how to explain all of this. I understand it on a feeling level, but words... Well, I'm giving it my best shot here. I'll start at the beginning.

It started with some triggering events, the memory of the birth rape (yes, I'm calling it what it is), a misunderstanding with the therapist, and the internal lock down courtesy of an inner protective force I have been fondly (and mostly jokingly) referring to as 'Rambo'. Fast forwarding just a bit, how this force came to be seen as Rambo is something that has dawned on me like a bulb going off in my head and many things - some of them a bit uncomfortable - have begun to sink in. I have taken the bull by the horns instead of hiding out (I can do that - I have Rambo:-) and I am doing the best I can to organize it all in my mind.

I am assuming everyone reading this has seen the Rambo movies, but for anyone who has not, Rambo was a war veteran. He was a fierce soldier who had a hard time understanding that the war was over. It didn't take much to set him off and he didn't necessarily get on well with society. He was angry for being treated like a piece of garbage for his valiant service in a socially unpopular war. It's a good metaphor. I can relate. Further, I'm sure my father did, too. Yes, my father had something to do with the development of my Rambo. This is where things can get sticky. It would be easy to reject this part of myself on that information alone, but I won't do it. I won't do it because Rambo does not belong to my father, he belongs to me. Maybe it's not so unusual that a soldier's daughter would use such a metaphor. It's not unusual at all that a small child with two parents, one strong and one weak, would 'take on' more from the strong parent than from the weak one. EVEN if the strong parent was very often an ass. To me, that is just more proof of natural selection; it's the survival of the fittest. Well, I am the fittest and I survived. Further, Rambo is not my father. Their different choices and actions prove that to me. I think my Rambo is simply what grew from the power I took from my father. He did not grow into my father, he grew into ME. That makes him mine, and thus I accept him and treat him with the respect he deserves. I don't see this as being any different from carrying my father's genetic material. I'm still me. There is nothing wrong with the genetic material, and there is nothing wrong with power or powerful feelings. It's all about for what purpose they are used. Rambo is used to defend the helpless and to defend the truth. He steps in when he sees that I, or someone I love, is in danger. He steps in when my bullshit detector gets triggered in a way that could signify the impending possibility of me being cornered into accepting some principle or idea that would LIE to me. He protects me from incurring further damage. He is not just about anger. He is about integrity. And so I love him.

The thing that hit me today is another metaphor involving Rambo. If the first movie was about Rambo's adjustment problems outside of the war zone, the second one was about what has been going on inside lately. I was struck dumb with shock when I was suddenly hit out of the blue with remembering that he went back to the war zone. He went back in to get the prisoners of war and bring them home. Remember that? Yeah. He went back there in here, too. He went in to get the teenage girl and bring her home from the hospital. He tried so fucking hard. He succeeded in part. I know he did because he brought home the information that told me the total truth of what happened to her in there. Yes, he told me in a few very brutal, graphic, and shocking sentences because he doesn't know how to lie by dressing things up for the sake of nicety. He brought me the truth. I know he will eventually bring home the girl, too. I know he will, because Rambo does not fail. Have you seen him in action? Yeah. That girl is a good as mine. You see, it's not that Rambo didn't bring her, it's that I did not fully succeed in taking her in when he did. I didn't understand then. Well, I understand now. How do I know for sure that the mission was not a complete success? I got my confirmation from the post-sex nightmare. I dreamed I was standing in my kitchen and I was sure my father was sneaking up behind me. I could almost feel his hands on my back, but I was afraid to move. In the dream, I called out to my daughter (now an official teenage girl) and told her and - she laughed at me. The little girl was afraid of the father and the teenage girl made fun of her for it. That's how I know.

So why am I doing better? It's because I have embraced my inner Rambo. He got furious when the therapist suggested DBT after being shut out and not knowing how to help. Well, suggesting Shut Up and Act Normal 'Therapy' to someone who has a great deal of integrity, is deeply invested in honesty and has a Rambo on board... is like waving a red cape in front of a bull. Rambo being fully listened to and respected, I went to bat for myself. I was concerned that perhaps the therapy relationship was not going to be able to support the necessary level of honesty required for healing and that it might end as a result of 'clearing the air', but I was ready to choose me over the therapist. I informed him that --

1. No one except me gets to tell me what to think or feel because I won't tolerate it.
2. If I feel like screaming and/ or crying, then that's exactly what I'm going to do and I don't need him or anyone else to approve of it.
3. I'm not broken, so don't fix me.

I was aware that I could be ending the therapy with the emails I sent explaining myself or with the discussion that followed. I won't deny that I was afraid. I didn't sleep for shit Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning. I was afraid, but... that's what courage is - proceeding in the face of fear. I did that 'cause Rambo had my back. I finally understood him, loved him deeply, and felt blessed to have him. Because of truly being with him, I KNEW that I would somehow be okay even without the therapist. And I knew I was about to find out what my therapist was really made of. He informed me that -

1. He DOES agree with my principles.
2. He respects my feelings and wants to be here for me.
3. Sometimes he finds a client to be a teacher and himself to be a student, and that this is one of those times.

So, yeah. It's been a double win. I chose me and then so did he. And so I eat, I sleep, I uh... you know.

:-)





Dear Rambo,

You are the best soldier EVER. I am so LUCKY. Maybe not everyone has a first rate warrior like you who will go behind enemy lines to bring home the prisoners. I promise you that I will find a way to take that girl when next you bring her. I will. I think I might know what to do. You know that story I quit writing when the main character was about to disappear through a certain doorway and into the unknown? Yeah. That could be one way. There must be other ways, too. I'll figure it out. I will. You have my promise. And I think you're right about Jenny being able to help. And thank you for nurturing her. She hasn't jumped from a single cliff since you came home and she seems to be getting stronger. And that doesn't even freak me out. Thank you for that. You are one class act.

Love,
Me