"Is it Illegal to take the Cat's Valium?...Its one of those days" ~ Day One

"Is it Illegal to take the Cat's Valium?

Its one of those days"

~ Day One ~

Written by: Stacey L. Bolin

Copyright 5/5/2016

W

aking, the same as every morning before, I’m strikingly gorgeous shrouded in pure sexiness with my hair in place, my skin caressed with the scent of Liz Claiborne perfume, make-up still virgin and a smile that could cast a glow - that in its presence could end all world hate - NOT! I grimace at the thought of the truth. 

            As soon as I scripted the statement above, I know I heard the theme song to L.A. Law engulf my senses.  I could envision myself bequeathing a statement in a court room with a million eyes scrutinizing me as I reply to the Judges question. "Yes, Judge I would like to renounce my previous statement. This is how it really happened when I woke up.”

            At 4:19 AM, I woke with excruciating pain of my bladder ready to saturate my sheets and my husband lying next to me. I'm instantly angered as this happens every morning and I feel cheated out of the last 39 minutes of MUST HAVE beauty sleep. I arise like a Zombie cast member of the Living Dead, dragging my legs to the bathroom that is only ten steps away, but I still manage to stub my toe on the metal bed frame that used to have a foot board that prevented this from happening. The sock I taped on the end of the frame was an illusion that gave my brain the false hope that next time I hit it, I would not be jolted into an episode of foot throbbing madness that would soon be accompanied with the pain of my shoulder after I run into the door jamb of our bedroom because... (If I were writing a screen play this is where that strange sound would come in, like shaggy from Scooby Doo saying – ZOINKS! Then the Judge would be interrupting my babbling would ask the question, with a sound of his bullshit detector in his voice, "Ms. Bolin, are you sure this is how it all happened?)

 I feel a strong sense of sarcasm coming on....

            YES! and it's no bullshit! It happens like this every morning because I don't have the ability to hop on one foot half asleep while having to lobster claw lock my legs together to keep from covering the floor with an crotch toxic odor cause by the fluids of what feels like 100 ounces of everything I drank for a week.

Yes, I do ponder about those sporting a penis – does it work to put a serious grip on it so you don’t have an accident if you bladder was pissed at you? NO PUN INTENDED. Smiling.

            Now years ago I had the ability to hold it, but at 48 and the gravitational pull that seems to be getting stronger as I get older - my "Hold It" record is covered in dust that has been collecting for the past 25 years since my last horrific uncontrolled urination blunder - but that's another story I wrote about. Maybe you've read it - "Though the Barracks Window: A Time of Waves. Check out the Chapter entitled D-Day. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

            Getting back to my story - Hobbling my way through the last two steps to our bathroom I finally slump down on the toilet. I do my best to abstain from moaning in an almost orgasmic way, as the flood gates surge open, drowning out the pains in the other places on my body. After finally reaching the end of the 100 ounce marathon, I'm completely exhausted and go back to bed at 4:36 AM - Please note: This is not what the doctor ordered but I go for it anyways knowing perfectly well that my second awaking would be worse than the first. I can't tell you what the science dynamics are that form when I actually fall asleep for the second time, but I truly believe those last 24 minutes is clearly my power sleep mode in full force. How do I know this? I've never fallen asleep over a long period of time and wake to my face and hair stuck to my pillow with the sticky drool that forms. I have dreams that my teeth are falling out and in my mouth are my teeth that are pieces of CHICKLETS gum  – let’s hope they’re not yellow. And for whatever the reason - I am afflicted with another bout of "Hey this is your bladder I need to go again!" pain.

            This is just my waking morning routine…that is aggravating as hell. However on this day, I feel instantly melancholy when the realism of what is about to take place dawns on me as I sit on the end of the bed in the home I’ve lived in for 22 years. My days, my world, my life is all about to change in less than 40 days because on this day, Wednesday May 4^th, two days before our 24^th wedding anniversary, my husband and I signed a series of documents that will change our lives forever.

            No, not divorce papers…yes I know there are some out there that pray for that to happen with every day we stay together. Sorry folks, there is no parole options for my honey and I – move on.  

            At 7:30 AM, we signed the official contact to sell our home to a very nice couple. This decision to move has been talked about almost daily for 22 years, but being less than forty days away is the most terrifying experience that I honestly thought would never happen. I’m happy, sad, scared, worried, and my anxiety is working on over time that I think I’d qualify for the 2016 Summer Olympics – all events -  if I could bottle how I’m feeling and use it as a form of crazy adrenaline to fuel me to win any of the competition categories.   

            What makes this wonderful change in our lives horrifying is the fact – there is no plan. No home to go to, no jobs that have been confirmed, No place to dream of decorating to make a house a home. No mantel to arrange my holiday decorations, No place to dream about and the life after it. No place to lay my head down next to my husband - in a place that is our very own like we created here in Maryland. We are literally pulling up our roots again and starting over. We are packing up 22 years of memories and purchases to turn our focus to the one and only thing we do know...we are taking the road that goes west.  I can help but think of a video I had seen years ago on MTV, this situation reminds of the music video called “We’re on a Road to Knowhere” by the Talking Heads. It makes no sense, but at the same time you’re excited for the adventure to discover what’s on the road to nowhere.

I’ve always have been a person that loves to have something to look forward too. Yet it appears to me, what I keep envisioning is that all I have at this very moment is how I’m going to load the moving trucks - after that it’s anyone’s mystery. So I used my uncertainty to give me both the strength to overcome my fears and the ability to write about this crazy journey like I have done so many times in the past. For example; my husband being attacked by a prehistoric gummy bear or the black hair donut nun chucks. Something about our trips west always generated so many unbelievable, but true tales to tell. Granted we were just going west for a vacation, we were not about to jump into a move half way across the USA with both feet without a plan.  Don’t get me wrong…I’ll go anywhere as long as it doesn’t destroy my relationship with my sons and my marriage.

Now, I keep forgetting a key element in all of this…Cleopatra our cat. She and I have had long discussions about this endless topic. You see she is getting up in years too, and we older women like our routines, schedules and have learned to stick together. We’ve been to our Doctors and Vet and I’m jealous that my cat is being prescribed Valium to weather moving day. Which has me thinking – what would happen to me if I took my cat’s valium? Would I grow whiskers on my own private place – and if so would that mean I could feel my way around in the dark? Did she really just say that? Ha ha. Yep! Made you smile or wince.  I know, I just veered off into gutter lane, but like I said, I need to find humor in all of this.

            It was this type of thinking, during a lunch date with a friend - I’m going to miss to the moon and back, and a phone call with my mother that very same day – that spawned the idea, rather than stress and worry about what the future holds in the next few weeks and beyond; why not share this experience with my readers. I know I’ll vent, I know I’ll laugh and find the humor, and I’m know without a doubt I will break several times into extremes of tears and anger, but what I also know is that if I can survive cancer, a sexual assault, and the negative nellies of this world – this is just another step in my own “Wizard of Oz” adventure and I will stand strong and tall. I’m hoping I can be my own Dorothy, click my red shoe heals three times and we’ll find our – No place like home – home.

            But until then, your support of just reading my writings help me in ways that words could never express and just knowing someone somewhere out there has given me just a bit of their time - empowers me with an indestructible “CAN-DO” spirit.

            Welcome to my journey.

            So until tomorrow – Blog ya later.

I Hate Getting Flashbacks from Things I don't want to Remember.

I knew after entering the building, that on this winter windy night – I was never going to be the same. My anxiety had been heightened all week long as I stewed on the invite to spend time with friends at a bar just on the outskirts of Hillsmere, Maryland to enjoy a DJ’d karaoke night and a few games of pool. We arrived early to get the best seats in the house, right next to the dance floor. As I sat enjoying conversation with my husband, I’m horrified as I see myself walk through the door. She is a blonde with a big smile and is laughing with two other friends.  My darkened inner world tells me it’s Donna and Crystal – but the reality is that I’m in Annapolis, Maryland, but I see 25 years ago in Adak, Alaska at that very same moment. My instinct tells me to run, my heart smiles to see my husband making full eye contact with me when my gaze is not distracted by false images of a flashback that is trying to convince me that I have returned to the past.

 A smell that doesn’t belong there entombs me – mom’s house, the peach air fresheners, the smell of fresh cut grass, the sounds of the ocean as seagulls fly over - these things help me wear a faux smile - but doesn’t release the invisible grip of my rapidly growing paralyzing fear.  I don’t want to be there, I want to go home, but say nothing as I don’t want my friends to know that I’m scared, I’m vulnerable, and I want this pain to finally go away. A master of hiding what hurts me, is what I believe I am – I am so very wrong!!!!

 I briefly turn to alcohol, to try to cut the fear - a temporary fix as the events of the night begin to unfold. I’m asked to turn around and look at the lady in the booth behind us – The blonde, people are laughing, they are taking pictures – I see my attacker and a video camera. She is dazed, dizzy, confused – she has been drugged and I must save her before he gets her. But I’m told it’s not my business and to not pay any attention to it. It’s up to the bartenders to take care of her. Elizabeth is who I see when I look over to the worker behind the bar to find this woman help. But nobody listens and tells me to turn away. I’m confused as the smell of my mother’s home during the same year I was assaulted - once again entombs me. I’m agitated, angry, scared, and mad, that my mind is telling me that nobody is doing anything to help this woman as men keep coming over to touch her, offering false assistance. She falls to the floor unable to stand unassisted. Nobody helps her – My friends immediately take charge to get the woman out of the building and away from males who are taking interest.

I’m told that my friend will be back as she takes the blonde outside, I turn to be face to face with a false image of my assailant as my arm is touched. I’m angry, I’m mad and something kicks in after all these years I'm no longer afraid, I’m bold, assertive, and I'm confident that my suit of armor is one of steel not tin foil  – “DO NOT TOUCH ME!” I command without fear. When I return to my table, I am angry  as I see a drunk woman sitting next to my husband, I don’t shy away this time – I speak up for myself, this woman will not take over my night with my husband and my friends. I find courage; I find a voice that I can hear as I speak. “Get up this isn’t your seat and that’s not your husband!” She tries to meet me with resistance and attitude – she's unaware I am fueled by excessive flashbacks and are stronger and stronger as I am forced to see the past that I had blocked for so long. 25 years of being angry that a waitress - that resembles this unknown woman at our table - that helped my attacker by drugging my drink.  

I don't want this negative element near my family anymore. I'm following my instinct that is filtered with past and present gut instinct - she's fake, she's unwanted, she's trouble - I finally become a voice of confrontation - “Get the fuck up and move on.” My friends have never seen that in me – my husband has never seen that - and I've never done that publicly - clearly something is coming to a head, but I refocus as I’m asked to assist again two other women, who are the blonde's friends, and an unknown male that was also feeling the effects of something other than excessive alcohol. My friends and I take over the chaos to get these women out of the building and home safely. It is only after the women leave that my fears had been confirmed - In the purse of one of the women - were the drugs that took a negative form of control on what was a night of fun, dancing and singing with friends.

The one of the bartenders are apologetic, but I want no part of what feels like poor acting as if they care. I’m insulted when I’m brought a shot from the female bartender trying to express that she should have known better. I’m skeptical that something is in the drink and my attacker awaits me. She doesn’t see the flashback that is entertaining my thoughts and visions.  I only reply – when she finally acknowledges that it’s her fault when she saw these patrons in distress earlier and did nothing. It is then I am able to speak and say – “Yes, you are right.” She realized she should have done something about it. My friends and I saved these three women while another group of people helped the man who came with them, from the other side of the room, get home safely as well.

I feel I had finally been giving a chance to right the wrongs that haunted me - I couldn’t save my roommate in 1991 and that I didn’t know how to help the girls that reported to me what had happened to them, as I was dealing with my own shock of being sexually assaulted and my own command did nothing when I reported it to them. As the negative chaotic atmosphere of the evening dissolves -  I’m alone at the table, when it is at this moment, my icy heart of hate, is deteriorating- I don't want to let go of who I had become on the inside, bitter while at the same time - so loving but iced over. I have a small fire of feeling a glimpse of self-worth that is growing - I'm panicked by this new feeling as my emotions are overwhelmingly drenched by the beautiful sense of inner goodwill.

I comprehend at that moment I’m not terrified by the sense of touch from someone who is not my husband or family, and I finally allowing a supportive hug from a friend who offered comfort as I finally found the courage to share the darkness in my mind, with those around me. I’m over flowing with sobbing emotion – I was meeting for the first time -  the realization and full understanding that what happened to me in October of 1991 – WAS NOT MY FAULT!. I feel that this was the final act of destroying my inner hate, and was placed at a cross road - I'm giving one of only two choices - I could be the victor and claim my new shoes of life, or retreat to the darkened corner of my thoughts and place it there again, for another day to try to emerge as my heart and soul try to finally heal the years of pain, fear, and anguish.

I like the new shoes. They are a bit snug, but will mold to meet my needs as I move forward in a positive light. I will NEVER forget that I can’t change the past and can't go back, but I can learn from it and teach to others what it has now taught me. It is OK to be afraid of things – but never let it control your life, because all those days you waste hiding and worrying – are days of your life you can never get back and only added to the hate and resentment. I can't say that I'll ever be 100%, trauma really changes a person and their perspective on their lives and the people around them. I'd be lying if I said that I will never have to check a room before entering and I'll won't have to look over my shoulder all the time. There is just something things that change in a person and as for trusting, this is the clause embedded  among the walls of my mind.

"You're modern woman with strong morals and several surprising old fashion values. You will have to be very clear about who you are while also understanding that often times you will scare potential friendships away.  Your ability to trust is a process that is earned over time; nobody is entitled to it, no matter how privileged one may believe they are. If one gains your trust, always know the clause, guard it with your life, because once another loses your trust - it’s gone and it could take days, months, years, or maybe it will never be given back - Only you can make that choice of when or if ever."

"The Mind is a Powerful Thing"

We'll here it is, September 19, 2012. Nine months since I began my quest to get organized and what a quest it has been. Now for most people, when a person says that they need to get organized it generally means getting your home, office, or maybe even your storage locker you purchased to house the extra stuff that your home doesn't have room for. But what if getting organized meant, organizing your material things and your mental things? For years I saw the physical clutter in front of me and never understood the mental clutter that was the cause. I've walked around in my life in this half-baked type thought process without any answers as to why. Could it be that I was just lazy? A terrible homemaker? Depressed? Overwhelmed? Maybe all of the above - I just couldn't tell you. But what I do know is that when your mind is unorganized, the life around you will be the same. Now I'll be honest, there were times that I should have posted my before and after clutter projects, that I have been working on between the gaps in my blogging, but recently I've been trying to cope with a past situation that has found its way to the forefront of my memories that have me feeling deeply ashamed and embarrassed and what's worse this event dictated who I was all these years. I share this with you today, as it is time to move forward and that someone may be going through the same thing as myself. I'm not looking for pitty and you can't change a thing, that the past is what it is and all I can do now is try to accept and move on. Easier said than done. I believe it is important that when someone sets out to do something and they are not consistent, sometimes there is an underlining reason of explanation that helps those around you to understand and offer support.

I chose to go back to a therapist to help delve into the mysteries of my mind. Why do I do what I do and say what I say. Why did I feel like I had two people living in this body of mine? In late July I discovered why. When a person has experienced a traumatic event in their life, most times they deal with the event and move on slowly in the life. Others, for whatever the reason, block the event with the hopes that the memories will never return. It take a lot of work when a person blocks a pain, a hurt, a sorrow that in their mind they just don't want to handle and that is where my problems began and left me, for years on a path of extreme behaviors created by the mind to keep a memory from returning. Now when my therapist told me that it was possible for people to go on for years this way, I looked at her as if she was a fool, but in things that I wrote and said she began to see a pattern that resembled sexual abuse/assault. I could not recall anything major when she spoke of this, but I do remember feeling panicked, the room began to spin and my breath quickened.

I couldn’t get out of her office fast enough and was happy to know that I was only being seen every two weeks. Personally I always believed that it was my cancer diagnosis that resulted in a duel personality - one happy and one sad. When I felt sad or scared, then the extreme happy personality would shove the other personality out of the way and take over. Yet when my therapist asked me how long I felt I had this feeling of being two people, I responded “Since I first got to Adak.” Well now that ruled out my cancer being the cause of my extreme behavior, but what in heaven’s name happened in Adak other than the typical everyday military life and drama, that would make me feel that I need to think the way that I have over the past 21 years – It just didn’t add up in my mind, however could explain the excessive need to return to the island. I have always felt there was something I needed to go get, or find, but couldn’t explain it.

I’d have dreams about Adak that were extremely vivid, I could smell, hear, taste, touch, I was there but would wake up very upset when my dreams would take me into a club that I used to work at called the Husky Club, which I spoke about in my book “Through the Barracks Window”,but did not recall this traumatic event that I am about to share with you, until just this summer thanks to close Seabee friend who finally provided me with the answers that I had missed placed in my mind to protect myself from the hurt. When I asked him why he waited so long to tell me what he knew his response was – I didn’t want to be the bad guy and hurt my friend with what I knew and that it seemed that I had just moved passed it and he didn’t want to bring it up.” It was after talking to him, all the memories that I had banished away behind a locked door in my mind, where once again in front of me twenty-one years later. He never knew that I had just blocked it, I had never faced it and I should have from the start. I am finding with each day I chose to talk about what happened to me, the clutter in my mind and in my home is rapidly diminishing. So what happened to me you asked? A man took something from me without asking as he knew the answer would be NO! AND NO MEANS NO!

I was a DJ after my military work/duties, at the Husky Club. I was 23 years old, single, and doing what I loved after my Seabee work - I got to play music for others to enjoy. My first few nights working there I was in a training type of status – having to learn how to fade one song into another, how to turn the equipment on and off, and getting over my fear of talking on the microphone. I was a fantastic DJ – when nobody was in the building. We are all great at something when nobody is around. Now we all have those mom moments, you know the ones when you’re about to do something and you hear your mother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you to think before you do it. Well I had hit one of those moments head on. I was still very timid about working the equipment and decided that I would stay after the club closed to go over the closing process one more time before going solo. I trusted the guy who was training me – and that was my downfall. He had brought me a beer, which had already been opened, that he had got while the bar tender was closing. He was so gitty when he said, “Here, this is one of the perks of being a DJ at the Husky when you are the one closing up the place – we get free beer!” I smiled and happily accepted it.

The music that was playing began to sound like and can best be described as white noise. That is when my happy moment and my love for music, while the song Diamonds and Pearls, by Prince, (Which is why - Liz, I hated it when you'd request this song endlessly over the next four years I was there, and you knew I wouldn't play it. Now It has me wondering if you knew what happened? What I am told now is that my reaction to your request then could be considered a trigger and that I didn't understand why the song bothered me because my mind had chosen to block the memory of how it related.) It continued to play and my body was slowly becoming limp. The music sounded like it was beginning to fade on and off. I remember feeling tired and dazed and once in a great while I could see colored lights flash before my eyes as he spoke, “Nobody has to know.” The lights and white noise were also dreams I would have but could never find the relevance of them to my life. I didn’t like the feeling of him touching me as he took a hold of me to lead me across the dance floor to another room, but I didn’t have any strength to pull away. I remember seeing the ladies room, but he took me into the back office with a mattress on the floor. I hated the way he felt on top of me, but I couldn’t scream for help! I hated the scent of his cologne, but couldn’t get fresh air! I hated the sound of his voice telling me how beautiful and sexy I was! I HATED IT ALL! I HATED HIM! I was filling with rage while feeling completely helpless. I wanted to strike him, hurt him, scream at him, pull his hair, but my body just lay there – numb. I could feel the warmth of my tears pool into the corner of my eyes and then run down the side of face into my ears and then down my neck. I tried to just fixate on the warmth of my tears and he took want he wanted from me physically and sexually. He was a thief in the night never to be trusted again.

It was then I felt myself morf into a split person, just like being cut completely in half from head to toe. I told myself to think of something else it will all be over soon and you will forget about it. I remember going deep within myself looking for things that made me happy as he continued to have his way with me. I don’t remember when the thief finished with me, but what I do remember is constantly looking for the pink shirt that I wore that night that was never to be found again. I remember hearing loud banging on the door and soon a man’s voice saying to me, “I’m sorry I left you alone with him, I’m so sorry, will you ever forgive me.” I never looked up to see his face, I knew the voice and that he worked there, but I didn't know him personally. He insisted that I call the police, but I just wanted to go back to my barracks room never to come out again. My personality was always positive when I finally went back to work, I refused to deal with what had happened, however my dislike to be touched by people became extreme. I tried dating guys while on the island, but I couldn't find the ability to connect and the idea of sex sickened me.

When the man I am now married to today, arrived on the island in 1992, I had pretty much given up on men all together. Until the night that I met him. I honestly feel that was the night that my mind had blocked what had happened to me months earlier. My husband's touch is the only touch I wanted and would accept. He had a special quality unlike the others I had dated - his hugs made me feel 100% safe and still does to this very day. I never reported what had happened to me and by the time I had met my husband, I had completely blocked what had happened, but trust me, people on the base must have known which may, or may not, explain why they were so upset that I got married only knowing a guy three months. Maybe they believed I married him because I was running away from the pain of what happened. I’ll set that record straight – How can someone run from something they don’t remember?? I married my husband, because I love him and so very much in love with him and I don’t want anyone else. It hurts me to think that still after all these years, a person who took something from me, still was taking from me mentally after all of these years and my friends and family had to suffer while I struggled with what the doctors believe were/are symptoms of P.T.S.D. for years and didn’t know or remember why.

To my friend who found the courage to share what they knew about that tragic part of my life on the Rock and then also let me know that I was not the only one who had been taken advantage of at the club – I thank you. I am sure it was hard to finally reveal what you knew, but please understand I could never be mad at you and I am so thankful that it was you who told me. It will take me a long time to actually say the four letter "R" word that describes what happened to me, but I have given the information/documentation to the right people to help me move passed the memories of the event and finally be the "one personality" me I used to be. You my friend have given me a new light on life and myself and my family thank you.

I tell myself that with each improvement, accompanied by music that inspires me to stay on a positive road another spark of happiness shines. These are a couple of my many favorites to get me motivated and helped me attacked the Spare bedroom madness.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMkHO0NzFy0&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5kwUG1vAmk&feature=related

I know the process takes time and with the support that I have from my friends and family, I will overcome this. I have not given up my goal to be organized by the 2013 and I promise you...I WILL DO IT! I may not blog every day, but I do my best to write at least twice a week to keep you updated on this progress. I know - you will not be disappointed.

Below are before and after pictures of the dreaded spare bed room/office clutter hell that I battled for months, but is now in an excellent example of what happens when you let your mind go somewhere positive and your heart follows.

Looking at this I see the clutter
that was in my mind.
Kinda gives a person whole new perspective
when someones asks you -
"What the hell are you thinking?"



There is peace in the Valley -
Let's hope it lasts.



“Combat and rape, the public and private forms of organized social violence, are primarily experiences of adolescent and early adult life. The United States Army enlists young men at seventeen; the average age of the Vietnam combat soldier was nineteen. In many other countries boys are conscripted for military service while barely in their teens. Similarly, the period of highest risk for rape is in late adolescence. Half of all victims are aged twenty or younger at the time they are raped; three-quarters are between the ages of thirteen and twenty-six. The period of greatest psychological vulnerability is also in reality the period of greatest traumatic exposure, for both young men and young women. Rape and combat might thus be considered complementary social rites of initiation into the coercive violence at the foundation of adult society. They are the paradigmatic forms of trauma for women and men.”
― Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The aftermath of violence--from domestic abuse to political terror