Qualia

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About Qualia

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    Female
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    Survivor
  1. We're here to support you. I had one when my fance suicided. All I could do was play solitaire for weeks.
  2. hi I was trying the skins and i wanted to point out that the tabs (the graphics) on the Stone Skin aren't all there. Probably just a mixup in an update, so I thought I'd point it out for the webmaster. Nice skins, by the way. Never mind, it fixed itself after a server tiemout. Weird. By the way, there are a lot of server timeouts. Not sure if the admins are aware.
  3. Gunther Hagen's New Skull

    THE BEST DAY EVER When I was 17 one of my mom’s colleagues went on sabbatical. She had 4 horses, and said I could take one for a year, a 4 year old palomino Appendix Quarter Horse named Solitaire. I didn’t have any equipment for her aside from a halter and a bridle but I was very confident in my riding ability that I would have no problem riding bareback; I’d had several years of weekly lessons before and felt experienced, I guess at that age you have a lot of bravado and confidence. The owner was there and my mom was there and it was an awesome day, I was finally getting what I had worked so hard for all these years. My mom was with me and taking photos of the Best Day Ever and praising me and the horse was so beautiful. The owner game be a leg up and we walked a bit around the paddock and broke into a trot, even though I had only ridden bareback one or two times before I had no problem with the trot and felt confident enough to ask for a canter. We cantered in a small circle and I thought it would be fun to go down and up the small hill in the paddock so we went partway down the hill. Solitaire’s mom neighed for her daughter and I felt myself start to slide off her shoulder and down her neck, I wasn’t scared as I’d fallen off many times before, I was more embarrassed because I wanted to impress the filly’s owner. A Flash of Yellow. Next thing I was aware of I was face down in the grass with my hand under my face. I lifted my hand up and my palm was full of blood. I heard my mom yell my name and heard footsteps running towards me. I remember asking if the horse was ok and the sound of the car backing up towards me. I was put in the back of the station wagon, lying down and I was holding onto my face. Mom drove to the next farm, some other people that we coincidently knew, and got some ice from their cabin. I don’t remember most of the hour and a half or so to the hospital. When we got to the hospital I was put in a gurney and there were several interns all around me and they wheeled me into the back. “I must be really hurt” I thought “they aren’t making me wait.” I thought it was strange because I didn’t feel any pain, just itching. I went to tough my face and one of the staff restrained me. “I just want to wipe the blood” they must not have been able to understand me. Hours went by and a plastic surgeon arrived. My eyes were swollen shut. My nose was under my left eye. They coined it a “facial smash”, both cheekbones were smashed and the orbital bones under my eyes fractured through. The itching of the blood dribbling down my cheeks and into my ears was driving me mad. They restrained my arms because I kept trying to wipe my ears and I wasn’t to touch my face. They called for an RN. Rob or Ron. My parents said they needed to go for coffee. They had my old the RN’s hand; he had thick stout fingers and hair on the back of his broad hand. “Hold on tight” said a voice. “We are going to put your nose back where it belongs.” Pressure. White. Star white, brightness like the centre of the sun. The sound of bone cracking and snapping inside my head. I held Rob’s hand so tight I realized why they chose him. I would have broken anyone else’s hand. I clenched my jaw. They put more morphine into the IV. They sent me hone eventually, they couldn’t do any surgery for 6 weeks until the swelling went down. I slept propped up in the La-Z-Boy with a bucket so I wouldn’t drown in my own blood and the blood that went into my stomach could be vomited up. 2 days later 3 school friends wanted to visit. I was too ashamed of my disfigurement for them to see me. My eyes were so swollen that I had no eye sockets, they were flush with my face. My corneas were bright red. My nose was kind of mush like a boxer’s. My right cheekbone had a Z in black stitches across it. My mom insisted I let my friends in. I was too afraid to let them see me and hid under a black cloak. They kept saying it was ok and I could take off the cloak and finally they convinced me and I lifted it up and the looks of horror and the way they say to stiffly in shock made me drop the cloak. I was traumatized. I went in the bathroom to throw up some blood. They made excuses to leave. When I came out of the bathroom they were going. They couldn’t stand it. I was mad at my mom for insisting they come over. I knew it would be horrible. It was much too soon. I bled for 8 days. I would go to the hospital with the cloak over my head so that people would not have to be grossed out by the horror my face was in. They checked me in the hospital after the 6 weeks and I had my first reconstruction surgery and began to look a little more normal. My corneas were still scarlet and the swelling went down. Lots of people came to visit, I wasn’t nearly as disfigured. I think it was a time in my life I felt very supported. Even one of my teachers came to visit and told me about when she was a kid her father forbid her to ride because he’d had a riding accident and tried to keep her away from horses. It wasn’t until the pain was all the way down that the pain started. I would go to my doctor for refills on my pain meds and as time wore on I had more and more trouble getting a prescription for my medicine that I needed. How could they think that after an incident like that I was lying? Things got worse and worse. I had 3 of the 11 wired removed with hopes that they would lessen the pain, and they did for a small while. I had to get shots to control the pain, and it was like playing lottery about whether or not the doctors would believe me. At first I would get an advocate, someone from my mom’s work to support me, but over the years they believed I could do it myself. There is a BIG difference about how you get treated as a pain breakthrough patient, if you have someone with you or not. If you are alone they immediately assume you are a “drug seeker” which is a euphemism for “junkie”. I'd like them to live in this body for a day with the memories of all the past pain and watch them change their minds. I had 4 reconstructive surgeries over the years. I was told my pain was “in my head”. The irony was not lost on me. Over the years, the pain persisted and I still need these shots. The riding accident was 25 years ago. My pain doctor has said that my brain has changed in structure to accomidate the three injuies: Skull, Neck, and Back and that I will never not be in pain. I will donate my skull and brain to Bodyworlds. They sold Solitare while I was in hospital. I never got to forgive her and have closure. So important.
  4. The Bullies Aquarium

    How do you “be loved”? Love was taboo in my family growing up especially with the introduction of my stepfather when I was 10. He didn’t want my brother or I. We weren’t adopted. So suddenly there was this rift in the home, a home that was already unbalanced with the preferential treatment of my brother. It was like everyone was living under separate roves: my mom with her family, my brother was the golden boy and showered with gifts and attention even from our real dad, and I was The Unwanted, “Just a Girl”: “It doesn’t Matter”, “Never Mind”. If I wanted an art supply that was the same as something my brother got, it was “too expensive”. I worse my mom’s hand me down clothes and got terribly bullied at school and he went on school trips to Russia and France. My brother saw the unlove as some sort of competition and even though he had the upper hand, he did anything he could to make things as bad as possible for me. He would constantly provoke me, and I would get punished for things he’d done. The rule was, “if you told the truth you wouldn’t get punished”. My mom clearly wanted me to be the guilty one, but when I told the truth I would be punished. The second rule was “if no one tells the truth, you both get punished.” Watching me get punished unjustly was great for my brother, I think this was when his sadism budded. I held onto my ethics though, and held on to the truth; the facts. I believed in my heart that one day the evidence would be so obvious that she would have to see that I was the Good one. I didn’t know about denial until well into my adulthood. As soon as I was old enough to volunteer, I started volunteering so that I could be away from the uncomfortable resentful aura of home as much as I could. I started at a wildlife education centre and at the children’s cancer hospital. I enjoyed the nature centre but soon after I started the cancer hospital transferred me to the dingy cafeteria. I told them that I thought this was the type of work that people should be paid to do and said I wanted to be back up in the wards. They didn’t comply, so I didn’t return. Next was the stable, making sure the lesson horses were tacked up properly, that their feet were cleaned, that the tack was clean and the aisles were swept and the jumps were aligned right or put away. When I was old enough to earn a wage I become a TA and my money I earned went back into riding lessons. I watched as the parents of the other TA’s would have a meeting with the manager and they would get promoted, and often they would get a horse. I spent more and more time volunteering in the office, wondering about when my time would come. I imagined my parents would play it like a prank, that they forgot my Christmas presents one year, and there would be nothing under the tree. “Oh no we forgot!” my parents would say, and we would drive to a mall to get my presents. Maybe they would blindfold me so I wouldn’t know where we were going and we would end up at the stable and there would be My Horse. Of course my parents weren’t like that, and that never happened. The bullying at the stable was terrible. Usually it came from the latest TA to get a horse, they would get the horse because of marks or because of a birthday or because Daddy Loves Them. “Don’t your parents love you?” In my heart I knew they didn’t and I would keep silent and imagine the manure I was shoveling was their face. 3 times I had my mom’s car tires slashed when I borrowed her car. “Never mind” she would say and it never got mentioned to the manager, and the bullying continued. Nowhere was safe; the stable or school or home.
  5. BF Skinner's Aquarium

    My abuser was a master of manipulation. ****** Trigger Warnings: suicide, abuse, rape, medical abortion ****** I thought he was very sweet at first, conscientious of my needs, appreciative of my sense of humor and intelligence, and I thought he was witty and silly as well. One thing I didn't like though, was that he was always pushing me to go "the next step in the relationship." Friends warned me that something wasn't right with him, but I didn't see it. I wanted to take it slowly because I'd recently had my fiancé commit suicide a couple years previous and I wasn't entirely over it. Things were going well, and at the time I was living near the college I was working and going to school at, but it was a particularly bad side of town. One problem was some neighbors next door who on Fridays would have particularly loud and rowdy parties often ending in violence in the night with swears being screamed and loud violent thumps on the wall and the sound of women shouting back. But it was the crummy part of town and the police wouldn't respond to noise complaints. The turning point for this was one particularly violent party, banging and swearing and screaming going on and the next day the ambulance was there and one of the guys left the apartment in a body bag, he'd overdosed on coke. That was too triggering for me so I finally caved and said I would move in with him. If there was any decision in my life I could take back, it would have been that one. Things changed soon after we moved in together. He started to get very dictatorial, deciding which friends I could see and which friends I couldn't, and certainly no male friends. He would go out to the bar with his guy friends but he didn't want me going without him. He was always trying to get me to change my looks, to look more like this mysterious girl he was always talking about, but if mentioned any guy he would throw a fit of controlling jealousy. I decided that I wouldn't stoop to his level though and didn't take his baiting me for jealousy when talking about that girl. The jealousy got worse and worse. Soon he was opening my mail and any objection on my part would be met with an angry and threatening don't you trust me? He was very quick to temper and I soon found myself being the counterbalance for his emotions, trying to keep him steady. I didn't know at the time that that was abuse, as I had grown up in such an environment and so this kind of controlling, accusational and manipulative behavior was normal for me. Things got really strange when I learned that he was telling people that I was crazy and he was “helping” me. I was some kind of poor incompetent that he had taken under his wing by the good graces of his heart and was helping me with some kind of concocted mental disorder. The jealousy started getting worse and worse. I began to suspect that he liked being angry, and I would do my best to walk on eggshells when he was like that and not add to his moodiness. I didn’t know that I had fallen into the trap of the abuse, where he was holding me accountable for his emotions. He made up stories, things that people were supposedly saying about me behind my back, and started to speak jealously of people he imagined I was with previous to our dating. I said that even if these things were true, which they weren’t, what I did prior to our relationship wasn’t any of his business. He made me out to be a real slut and that made me resent him. Of course this feeling of resentfulness of the distrust, the invasion of my personal privacy and the uncalled for accusations made me less attracted to him and I didn’t enjoy being with him. He started to insult me in bed, saying that certain parts of my body "could be better" and really micro analyzing my imperfections. That made me feel horrible about myself and I wanted to be with him even less. The strangling began to happen. It started with him just putting his hands firmly on my shoulders and him staring into my eyes trying to get some sort of reaction from me. He would shake me and spittle would hit my face and he would tell me that I’m ugly, that I will never find anyone better than him and that my hair will fall out and I’ll go bald and that I was crazy and I should be grateful for him to be helping me. I asked him what exactly he was helping me with and that made him more enraged. Back then no one knew about “Rage Addiction”. He interpreted my not wanting to “go upstairs” with him as me being interested or seeing someone on the side and he started to micromanage my life. The only place I could go without his scrupulous eye was to the stable to ride my horse, and I spent more and more time there. The accusations became more and more outlandish and he would report that he had been telling his friends about our private life, which I said I was very uncomfortable with and I didn’t want him doing. He would tell me all these things while he was on top of me, making me very uncomfortable and hating having to be under him. I would stare at the clock and time would stretch out to unbearable lengths, but fortunately he only lasted about 6 agonizing minutes. The shaking turned to strangling, and I would drift off and dissociate. I didn’t want him to know that what he was doing affected me, an unhealthy coping mechanism that I’d learned from my dysfunctional family. I didn’t know what else to do. My lack of response would only add flames to the fire and the screaming and the choking and the shaking became worse and more frequent. I called my parents. He had said he had been keeping in touch with my parents, which I thought was odd, but I didn’t dare question him. “I need some money for a damage deposit to get out of there’” I told my mom. She said that she didn’t think it was an emergency and that I had chosen my bed and I must now sleep in it. That’s not even what that saying means. I didn’t have a crystal ball to know that he would slowly develop into this crazy power tripper. I realized I was on my own. He’d drained my bank account so I was unable to get out independently. It became “go upstairs or get strangled.” He said he wasn’t an abuser because he didn’t hit, and that’s true, he didn’t hit. He did everything else in the book though. “Going upstairs” became scary. I couldn’t take the pill and he started to refuse to wear protection. I protected myself with contraceptive foam and a diaphragm. I’d tune out and watch the clock so I could go back to my business and he would leave me alone for a couple of days. Once he was out of his mind, drunk after a night at the bar and he was certain that I’d had a one night stand with a certain guy, and nothing I could say could convince him otherwise. He strangled tighter and tighter, each time screaming in my face about this guy, and I kept stepping back to relieve myself of the pressure on my throat. Soon enough I was back up against the wall and he shook me really hard and my head slammed against the wall. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out and my jaw slammed shut with such violence that it cracked a tooth and I could feel the my throat close up. I told him to stop, that he was hurting me. He ran to the couch sobbing like a little boy for his mommy. “I can’t control you.” He sobbed. “No matter what I do I can’t control you.” I was dumbfounded. “Why would you want to do that?” I asked. Instinct took over at the sight of this pathetic figure bawling his eyes out on the couch and I went over to comfort him. Then I realized how crazy that was, that he’d tried to kill me only a moment before and so I touched his hair and I went up into my bedroom to lie down. (We had separate bedrooms because I didn’t want to have smoke in the place I slept.) I started to insist that he get therapy for his anger issues and he kept insisting that it was I that was the crazy one, not him. I said it wasn’t about craziness but about his emotional control. Things continued to get worse. Once, when he started to scream my name, which was the custom when it was time for him to go nuts, I was in my room. I took the top plank from my brick and board bookshelf and jammed it under the doorknob against the carpet as tight as I could. He screamed my name and pounded on the door. “Leave me alone!” I shouted. The door started to shake. And shake with each time he pounded it. He must have been running into it and hitting it with his shoulder. I heard wood crack. I saw the hinges start to come out of the plaster wall and the door splinter off the hinges. The door opened HINGE FIRST. He was I a rage. He took delicate precious objects of mine, like the nautilus shell my dad had bought me, and smashed them on the floor. There was nothing I could do. He raped me in my bed. I didn’t have time to prepare the contraception. Later, he explained the shattered door away by telling people I was suicidal and he’d saved my life. Christmas was coming and he would get drunk with his friends more and more frequently. They would watch porn on the TV and I would stay in the basement and use the computer. I could hear their creepy laughter drift into the basement. Then they would go out. Once I went to my car to go and get milk and the air was let out of my cars tire. I was a prisoner in the house. Our Christmas tree was covered in origami decorations that I’d crafted, complicated designs by John Montroll: dromedary camels and elephants and the like done in foil, some had taken 4 hours a piece to complete. He grabbed the Christmas tree and dragged it outside into the snow up and down the alley, then he came to and was crying and brought the tree back into the house. The candy canes had gotten wet with melted snow and stuck to the foil of the origami, destroying all my handmade ornaments. The strangling and accusations got worse and worse, him intentionally working himself into a rage so that he could try to intimidate me into having sex with him. He would come home black out drunk. Christmas was coming. I started to fear for my life. I mailed my mom a Christmas ornament that I’d made when I was 8, a horse head candy cane sleeve. It was meant to tell her I was in real trouble, and I asked again for help. It went unheard. I managed to get away, some people let me stay at their place over Christmas and I rented their basement. He was very sorry and wanted me back. I made an ultimatum and held it, that it would be conditional that he gets help for his anger issues. I told him this in front of his friends. They uncomfortably looked at each other. If they didn’t understand the abuse now, it was becoming clear to them at this point. I found out I was pregnant. Long before our first time, we’d made a verbal agreement and understanding that because of some injuries I had that I couldn’t take a baby to term or care for an infant. He suddenly became pro-life. He showed me where he’d poked a hole in the diaphragm and had intentionally impregnated me to control me. I told him that that didn’t change the situation and he would have to accept that this pregnancy could not go through because of medical complications, nothing to do with what he wanted. He stole the papers for the procedure and tried to keep me out of the house by twisting my arm behind the door and trapping my leg I the doorway. I could neither enter nor exit the house, I was jammed in the door with him pulling the door shut on my arm and leg. It started to rain and when a car drove by I would call for help. This was before cell phones so I had no way to get emergency services. We had a battle of strength for 45 minutes with me trying to get the papers until I was able to get out. I was on the front porch and he pushed me off the side and I nearly hit my head on the concrete gutter. I had bruises everywhere. I went to the nearest phone booth and called the police. I sat in the back of the police car and was assuming they were going to take me to the police station and photograph the bruises. One of the bruises was a perfect imprint of his hand on my upper arm in bruises and around my leg and I was just exhausted and soaking. They retrieved the papers and asked if I wanted to press charges and I said yes that I wanted to do a report and they talked me out of it, saying a criminal charge like that would affect him the rest of his life. Clearly he had worked his charisma on them. “What about my life” I was thinking, and like a burst balloon, the last of my energy went out of my body. Later I noticed that I was soaked with blood, probably the kick and the fall had done damage to the pregnancy. I lost all faith in the police. He did many more things than this of course, but at least I managed to get away from him but he stalked me for 2 years following by proxy of the landlady. I went to a class to learn how to stay out of abusive relationships, but I am still learning to this day. The injuries to my neck still remains injured, I had to have the cracked tooth removed and I got entrapped nerves in my neck and now it has developed painful bony lipping in the vertebrae, some is posterior, in the hole the spinal cord will go though. I will always have to relive this with the constant pain. I've never cried from this.
  6. This isn't my first blog, I have started and abandoned a few. Usually they were abandoned due to the need to talk about the abuse and assaults and with the social networking aspect of the web, it was hard to keep them anonymous. I have a need to let this out though. For the name I thought I would play on the clever name of this website, Pandora’s Aquarium, where one can peer inside the glass and the transparency allows you to see the evils inside. Then I was informed it is apparently a Tori Amos song, which I will listen to after I post my first entry following the introduction. I thought I would follow suit and call this Schrödinger’s Aquarium, as often the chronic pain I have makes me feel like I am both dead and alive. Further: This blog is for therapeutic purposes for myself. Names are removed in accordance to the rules. If you have a strong difference in opinion about some of the ethics or events in here, I would prefer that you keep them to yourself, I am not going to discuss morality on events that happened, many of the things I will write about are unpleasant and some were terrible and nightmarish and if I'd had the choice these things wouldn't have happened. At any rate, thank you for reading.