And so I breathe...

It has been said that none of us are given more of a challenge than we can handle. While that may be true on some "higher truth" level, it's a rather glib response to anyone dealing with intense challenges. In my own situation, I am dealing with a number of challenges that, even isolated on their own, would each be enough to throw off my emotional equilibrium, at best.

First and foremost, I'm dealing with yet another layer of the metaphoric onion, peeling it away to discover a truth that was deemed so dark, so atrocious, I was simply forbidden to remember. And the adults in my life at the time of these events had to have seen physical evidence that something was dreadfully wrong. A very relevant book for these issues is Thou Shalt Not Be Aware: Society's Betrayal of the Child.

The details of the horrific recovered memories are not something I'll share in this milieu; if I were to share it via one of my blogs, it would be Raised by Rabid Wolves, a blog specifically dealing with having grown up with parental figures who were either sociopathic or so badly compromised that they themselves hadn't the slightest idea how to parent in a healthy way.

But this recovered memory and related flashbacks (mere words cannot do this justice) are in addition to other issues. I am challenged to breathe, to truly breathe, and trust the universe. Love will ultimately prevail, and I will find my way past these various trials.

The laptop on which I've written my roughly 100,000-word memoir is on life-support. As long as I don't allow it to go online, nor ask it to do anything at all beyond Word and Excel, I do alright. The instant I enable internet access, the whole machine chokes, churns and freezes. I've run every anti-viral and anti-malware software available to me, and nothing has been picked up. Very frustrating. I'm hoping to save for a new machine by my birthday or so.

The only time I can get online is when my partner is taking a break from her online time. She's heavily into the FaceBook world, and plays a number of games there. But even ~she~ needs a break from Farmville now and then. But because I've been limited in my online time, I've been remiss in blog posts, twibe posts, and much more. For those of you who follow such activity, please accept my apology.

The memoir is coming along fairly well. I am now incorporating Tribe commentary within the text or supplementing the text. I am learning a fair amount from this process; secrets are being revealed. But most of all, our story is being told, and just the writing of that truth is healing in and of itself.

I've been reeling for a couple of days regarding the news that Oprah had a "multiple" on her show on October 6th - and obviously it wasn't me. I truly believe my story is rather unique. I'm not just a survivor, I'm also an empowered and empowering healer, counselor, reverend/priestess, and so much more. I want to be a public voice, a public face in the fight against stigma that accompanies mental illness, particularly Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID).

Today's latest challenge turns out to be an ironic one. I called my therapist this morning, saying I didn't feel well enough to come in, as I had a fever, a cough, and a sore throat. Leslie managed to develop pneumonia literally overnight, and instead of me going to my appointment to deal with this toxic new memory, I ended up taking Leslie to the ER.

Evergreen has been and continues to be a great resource when you need medical attention quickly. We were in and out of there in just a couple of hours, but then had to face Costco and their pharmacy to get the high-powered antibiotic, cough syrup, and inhaler. And don't get me wrong - I certainly do NOT blame Leslie for being sick. I am the one who begged her to let me take her to the ER; she sounded horrible.

What is frustrating is that Leslie is now prohibited from doing any real work for 30 days, and we've got a whole lot of it to do. I'm working on breaking things down into bite-sized manageable tasks, and using checklists and such. I remind myself that before Enlightenment, a Zen monk chops wood and carries water. After enlightenment, also chops wood and carries water. And so I breathe...

My Pathetic Laptop - An Epic Fail

In the last 24 hours, I have screamed, cried, and nearly thrown my laptop into the parking lot, where I could then run it over with my car. This PC is 5 years old, and I've been limping along with it as best I can.

I'm running two strong anti-virals and anti-malware packages, but somehow I've still managed to get some horrific pieces of code hidden in the depths of this thing's operating system.

On this computer, I have my Magnum Opus, the manuscript it took me five years just to get the courage to write. Now I have 100K words written, and it's time for editing and fine-tuning. How the hell am I supposed to do that with a computer that is more senile than my late grandmother?

Just booting up takes nearly 20 minutes. Opening up Word takes another 8 or 10 minutes. Then, I get these unexplainable pauses in the midst of whatever I'm doing.

I've decided that I'm going to have to work completely offline, in the hopes that whatever code is making its way in through my Internet connection will be thwarted.

I've turned off the physical switch that recognizes Wi-Fi signals, and I'm not going to connect this PC via an Ethernet connection to our Comcast signal.

My spouse lets me have a few minutes a couple of times each day to use her laptop, but I try to be brief, because it's her primary link to friends and family. I'll tweet now and then, and will upload blog postings (like this one) which have been composed offline.

In the meantime, I am so very, very angry... It feels as if now that I'm finally brave enough to tell my story, the Universe is saying, "Not so fast, missy!"

During my brief forays online, I'll have to see what I can find in the way of grant applications for writers to get new (or newer) computers. I simply can't live this way - the timing could not come at a worse time.

This is the time of year when things get more challenging, in any year. And this year, I'm recovering additional horrific memories, leaving me reeling and without an anchor.

I have to believe I will get through this, but last night was as close as I've come to a nervous breakdown in a long time. Simply trying to print my 200+ page manuscript (broken into manageable sections) took hours of my time.

I had to keep pounding on the printer, which was claiming there were no ink cartridges installed, when I had installed some just hours prior. That, or blank pages would come spitting out. Arghhhhh!

Goddess, how I wish there were such a thing as a computer fairy...