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I'm on a roll, it seems, with these blogs.  I simply have too much time to think these days.  It seems it's all I do.  When something baffles me - this is my drawing board.  I'm reminded of the evidence room whiteboard with scribbled notes and pictures and the strings connecting one to the other....that is an accurate assessment of my brain right now.  There's all this information, all these images.  I know there's more to it, and so I'm constantly and obsessively going over it.  Over, and over again.

First off, I wanna thank those who provided me with the requested hugs and who checked in on me last night when I was having a moment while trying to release my last blog.  I really didn't feel 'right' talking about (or rather, complaining about) things that really can't be helped.  I know nobody has it easy right now, and my 'inner voice' was telling me that I have no room to complain.  I debated whether or not to post and whether to delete the whole damn thing, but a friend wisely reminded me that I'd likely be pissed off with myself if I deleted.  And so, I posted - but felt terrible for it.  I can't explain fully the reasons behind my guilt over complaining but sure as shit, this is a project for a different whiteboard.  This one is full enough.

So, I've been trying to find more of a connection between how things are now and how things were in 1996.  This morning, I woke up and scared the shit out of my sleeping dog as I said it out loud.  Maybe, just maybe, a little too loudly.

"I've fucking got it!  It's the communication barrier!"

That's the connection.  I knew it had something to do with the ongoing pandemic, I just had a feeling, though, that it was something a little more specific than the feelings of isolation and disconnect.  And this is it.  

In 1996, it was my inability to communicate by means of making a telephone call (a cab, a friend, etc) that ultimately led to my rape.  Texting wasn't invented, yet.  There was absolutely NO way for me to 'call out' or to ask for someone to come pick me up and bring me home.  There would be no lips or words for me to read.  I was truly trapped.  It was this communication barrier that left me no choice but to ask for help - and doing so resulted in trauma.

And now, here in 2020 - I'm feeling this communication barrier again.  Of course, technologically wise, we are in a much more advanced place, but this does not change the fact that I still can't see lips whenever I'm out and about, at a store, at an appointment, ordering food.  I am forced into have to ask for help more than I'm comfortable with (for example, if I need to speak to someone and read their lips, I'm HAVING to explain that I'm hearing impaired and that i need for them to either lower masks or write things down) and I HATE this...because of 1996, I absolutely fucking hate this.  

Mind. Blowing.  🤯

I would say I'm gonna puke, but I've had nothing to eat, yet.  Still, my stomach's in knots.  Did I really just figure this out?? 

- Cap


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Dearest Capulet,

I've been working on my 'puzzle' too for years.  Little light bulbs illuminate a lot of pain and trauma and help in the journey.  It's an awe - aha moment and it makes all the difference going forward.  You do wonderful blogging.  I hope you have a string of lights to follow and darkness flees, in Jesus' name .  - POM

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Hello, @PearlofMary - it's so nice to hear from you.  

Thank you for the very kind words.  I agree there are a lot of 'aha' moments; some don't require too much thinking and others catch us WAY off-guard.  I hope your puzzle begins to 'take shape,' too and that some of those pieces that have been 'unconnected' are able to begin interlocking for you.  I wish I could say it's a good feeling when that does happen, but I suppose we can take comfort in knowing that neither one of us alone.

I hope you are taking gentle care of yourself these days! ❤️ Here if you ever needed to talk.

All the best,

- Cap

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