Cleansing - Image by Xilia
Ms Frida, on the other hand, prefers to sit under our chairs, if she’s not puking. Her nerves are bad. She isn’t very welcoming to other dogs…and if one tries to be inappropriate with her…she unleashes a fury of intolerance! I was proud of her today…as she did venture out from under the dirty lawn chairs. If dogs were causing a ruckus, barking unnecessarily, she would shoot out from under us…running towards the scene with a real busy-body fast paced strut….”Oh, shit…get Frida, she’s going to hurt!”
“No she isn’t, she’ll turn around and come running back.”
Halfway across the park, Frida stopped…turned around and came back. She did this several times – and would run back with a real sense of accomplishment. Very cute, considering the other dogs didn’t even notice her, and never stopped with their play. We were just happy to see her stop whining and puking enough to get some exercise.
I went to Congo Square for the first time today. Major history behind the square and I would also call it a sacred place. Not sure what was going on…what the festival was about…but there were booths and what else other than marching bands. I was more interested in the trees – and the history. I’ll go back when less people are there. Either way – it was enchanting way to spend the later part of the afternoon.
I needed a change of pace today, and shift in attitude: Something pleasant. Saturday evening I received news that someone from my past had been shot in July and died. This person was a huge part of my past – and was a member of the group of people I had hung out with, yet not someone I would have anything to do with today. His brutal shooting, by young gang members…allowed me to fall back into a world I had left behind – and rarely think about much anymore. The news was jarring…shot in the street isn’t the way anyone should leave this world, regardless of his or her actions.
Saturday night was spent with a knot in my gut and visions of being 16 years old, all over again. The deceased raped me when I was 16 years old. Of course I was blamed for it by everyone around me…so it was pretty much perceived as a reflection of me and dismissed. I even dismissed it, I didn’t know any better.
The way I was told about his murder was a trigger for me. Speaking with someone, whom will always be in my life, was screaming at me on the phone, which was the initial trigger. When I’m blasted into the past by being yelled at…I tend to freak out inside. When I say I was ‘triggered’ – that means it sends me into a panic that I cannot shake. Basically, I allowed this whole incident to ruin my evening. But, at this point in my life – I don’t know how to deal with these situations any other way.
The voice on the other end of the phone was highly upset with me for something utterly ridiculous. Unworthy of mention, either way, it was enough to send me scrambling for a safe place within myself.
I’m strong yet very fragile. I’m a flight or fight kind of gal. I know when and where to pick my battles – and I know when to retreat. I also know, all too well, how to be a deer-in-headlights. Words being delivered in an angry loud voice – doesn’t work for me. Depending on the messenger – I will either come out of bag like a crazed cat – or I will be stunted, coking on my own voice - absorbing and owning all that is shoved down my throat, and I swallow.
Half-hour ago – I was sweating like a stuck pig. Sweat dripping from my arms – from my hairline and wetness pooling in the middle of my chest and dripping from the back of my neck. Snoring – snortin’ and doggie whimpers due to doggie dreams became a symphony in the bedroom. Wind rattling the doors and windows, sirens in the distant and heartburn eating my rib cage, I had to get up. I opened the front window – and sat, allowing the cool, strong breeze to dry me off.
There is silence now. Time to go to sleep. I have a lot of painting to do tomorrow.