100 Words - Alrighty Then

Alrighty then...

If you're not following me on Facebook or Twitter then you missed the explanation of how I blew it last week. I had a work report I had to get out and I ended up pulling an all-nighter (less because of a deadline and more because I was on a roll) which threw off the rest of my week. Note to self: "part of aging gracefully is knowing when to quit with the all-nighters. After 35-ish, they'll just mess your world UP."

In other not so surprising news, I'm an introvert to the nth degree. Introversion, by the way, is not even in the same ballpark with shyness. Just ask my daughter. She has about two dozen embarrassing stories about her brazen mom (don't worry honey, I've already started your therapy fund). As it turns out, this introversion may not have been my best friend when it comes to how I came to have Complex-PTSD. Introverts aren't very skillful at creating boundaries between self and other, so they need a lot of alone time to recoup and stay sane. And because we live internally, we tend to internalize. It's like this. The internal world of the introvert is vivid and full and maybe even noisy and it extends all the way out to the veil-ish thin layer between her and the outer world and for the most part things only pass through it in one direction - outside to inside. From the inside, that veil-thin boundary is nearly impenetrable. What goes in does not come out. 

It creates an illusion of strength. The veil is a mystery. It invites others to heap on abuses they think you can take. It invites broken thieves who think they can steal wholeness. It invites can't doers to leave it up to you to do. That one-directionality appears to others as a bottomless vessel they can dump their toxins into. Then there are those who simply feel the need to possess or destroy that which they can't understand. It attracts like flames to the moth's delicate wings. And the introvert obliges because she herself has come to believe in the myths about herself.

At least this one did.

I can't cure myself of being an introvert. It's not a disease y'all, it's a personality orientation with fringe benefits. I'm learning that being an introvert - living this way, all the way out to the delicate edges, is quite vulnerable and I've got to respect and protect it. It's foreign and unfamiliar to think of protecting it by reversing the directionality of what passes across the borders. What, how, how much, and to whom are questions that spring to mind. In this introvert's experience, when the inner world becomes too full and "stuff" bleeds over the edges, it is simply too unexpected, sudden, and messy for the expectations of those attracted to the introvert precisely because of the one-directionality.

I'm being too cerebral where I meant to be funny. I'm also kind of proving my point here. And I'm still not sure what ANY of this means about anyTHING. Will this blog change? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe I'll write more, maybe I'll decide that's a bad idea and will only dilute the 100 words project. Maybe I've already had this conversation with myself a dozen times and need to shut up now. Obviously things might be more sporadic (don't lie, you've noticed). I'm just sort of going with the process.

So. Last week the word was SPLIT. This entry by Seeking Elevation packed a wallop.

The vote was split down the middle: Timmy and Marissa were for adding another floor to the treehouse, while Jordan and Keith were firmly against. I, the tie-breaker, walked away, stripping the white birch trees to their pink meat, my mind the gelatin of frog eggs.


I'd like to believe he was consumed by the tragedy of his attraction to someone other than his wife. Maybe he wrestled with it. I'd take comfort in words like "haunted" or "torn". But I bet it was as simple as gagging the married half of his mind while fucking her with the rest.

This week's word is from the poem "Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich.


"the thing I came for:

the wreck and not the story of the wreck

the thing itself and not the myth"