I’m Alison Wonderland. (It’s what my family often called me when I was growing up.) I embrace it because I recognize it’s accuracy. I do live in my own world. It’s the only way I know how to be. I connect with people who can accept me as I am. Usually, it’s individuals who are steady enough within themselves to come a bit closer. Close enough so I can hear their song. My wonderland is a bit slower and calmer. In my world, I look with my ears because they never lie.
I’ve been watching more Stevie Nicks: Live from Chicago, after wrestling with nightmares. It helps yank me out of the post-nightmare dread quickly. It’s a far gentler solution than flashing light in my eyes. (That has its own miserable aftermath. It works, though.) I’m super unwilling to linger on bad dreams. They can only fuck with me while I’m unconscious, dammit. And only then because I haven’t yet figured out how to annihilate them once and for all.
It’s been a rough few days. My nightmares have brought background fears front and center. I’m using paranoia level security in my apartment again. Nobody’s getting in safely without my permission. M. knows the drill. He finds something else to do when I’m fighting a skirmish with PTSD. I like that he understands my need for him to be scarce exists, and my need for him to comfort me does not. I did a horrible job of expressing my wishes, but he still got it. Whew.
I tried to tell him I became my own mom after my mom died. I meant it to be a gentle way of telling him I don’t need him to comfort me; I can do it myself. I strongly suspect he quickly decided he’d rather go play video games alone than wait for me to explain what I meant to my satisfaction. (Good call, M.) He works long hours and could sleep through a tornado. I info dump while he falls asleep, (and long after, of course.) It’s amazing how much he remembers. It’s fun to quiz him sometimes. I think surgical residents are also human tape recorders.
I realized today I’m tensing around men again. It feels like I’m going backward after so much progress. It’s unbelievably expensive to my energy level to be wound so tightly at work. I’ve never worked in a field that wasn’t male dominated, (but I can’t think one that isn’t ATM.) When the nightmares stop, and I catch my breath, I’ll worry about it. Right now, the fear I typically keep in check is kicking my ass. I’m hyper aware of my vulnerability. I hate The Fear so much.
I know I can beat it back, but right now I feel whiny about it, and there’s no fucking whining allowed. I want The Fear to be tangible so I can ask a Republican to come over and shoot it. (No, wait, they’d want to take it home and feed it.) Fuck! I hate being irrational! I want to go for a run, but… Whoa. Almost went there. I’m going for a run.