Three Years Ago

Three years ago I moved here into my little snug, a row away from my sister's apartment. She took me to choose paint for each room, and how I reveled in the luxury of being able to have color on walls, for once. This was the first time for me living alone, and it went hard with me until my youngest son moved in. Before he came I slept on the couch, afraid of the bedroom. I didn't understand why at the time; I thought maybe I'd grown so accustomed to having just one room to myself in someone else's home that I couldn't adjust to (what seemed at the time!) such a big place. I know now that my fear of sleeping in the bedroom, with no one else in the apartment, was fear of sudden night invasion.

I took great care in finding just the perfect spot for each of my possessions, thrilled at my newfound audacious freedom to put things any old place I chose. Curtains went up, framed photos and art work, and shelves for my Beatles memorabilia and my writing books.

Midge, my black and white cat, came to me here, and what a pair we are, each suffering from an overactive startle reaction. Here too I spent hours with my brain-injured son, playing video games together, trying to adjust each weekend to his loud presence and the disruption of my daily routine--but all the time loving his good natured laugh and generous spirit.

I took pride in the rose bushes just outside my front door, their beauty and lovely scent evoking vague memories of my earlier childhood before I began losing myself.

Poems were forged here as I struggled to deal with my mother issues, especially during those times  she visited my sister, much too close for comfort. I curled up on the couch suffering in silence while the rest of my family spent the holidays with her at my sister's; curled up and thought of suicide, wondering if I had the nerve for it after all.

Several times a week I had a full house for dinner, cooking big pots of stew or chicken soup, or tacos and meat loaf, laughing as Maddy asked for seconds and thirds, and then dessert. The family congregated in my tiny living room once or twice a month for rousing games of Trivial Pursuit or Pictionary.

I forced myself to paint my kitchen yellow, determined to overcome my aversion to it because of its association with childhood abuse. A year later, realizing I still didn't like it, I gave myself permission to paint its walls a light sage. This was good, this learning that it was okay to change my mind. 

I reclaimed the ability to be able to soak in a nice hot bubble bath, for I resented deeply the fact that the bathtub held so many dark memories. Infrequently at first, but more and more as time went by, I relaxed into the hot water, loving how the bubbles sparkled in candlelight. I said many prayers in the tub, prayers as heartfelt as any I've known and murmured before or since.

A dear childhood friend and I, out of touch for a couple of decades, reconnected and here in my snug she played her guitar and soothed me with her songs. Here we laughed as we used to when we were scrawny kids, and discovered that the thread of friendship may have frayed over the years but it had never really been broken.

Here is where I first dreamed of publishing my book of poems. How my heartbeat quickened when I held the first copy in my hands, reverently turning the pages of my sorrow, a sorrow shot through with eternal hope. I'd managed to write a memoir of sorts in poetry form, and oh how I nearly had to glance down at my knees to doublecheck for scabs, so completely did my written words take me back to the dreariness of childhood.

My granddaughters and I made glitter pictures on my coffee table, laughing uproariously at the sparkly mess that ended up in our hair, on our clothes, and in the carpet. Here, in my humble home, I read them books, bathed them, trimmed their bangs, and watched episode after episode of Max and Ruby, Dora, and Spongebob. (I suspect my little alters enjoyed it right along with us!)

When I moved here I had no way of knowing how long my tenancy would last. About six months ago the random thought of, I'm going to be moving in the near future, struck me. I mulled it over, wondering if it was mere imagination or a nudge from the God I've loved since childhood. Where in the world could I possibly move to, barely being able to afford this place?

And then events in our family unwound in such a manner that here I sit, typing this, days away from moving into a house with my son and granddaughters.

I know that moving is always somewhat traumatizing for me. That's why I'm writing this. I'm so weary of repressing how things affect me--and no one asks me to, for crying out loud, I do it to myself. And so I thought, why not write about my memories of the last three years, and how it feels to be starting another brand new chapter of life?

And so: this is how I feel. Excited yet sad. Thankful for the many good times I've enjoyed within these four walls, but relieved to be moving on. Displaced and scared (for my littles are whispering their anxieties: how will they know how to find things in the new home, what if they don't like it, etc.)

I've wept many tears on my couch, in my bed, beseeching God to have mercy. And so He has, in abundance. I've learned these past few years that I can face whatever the future holds, for He goes before me, smoothing my pathway.

I've learned I'm not as fragile as I suppose, nor as strong as others see me.

I've discovered within me a voice filled with sorrow but the kind of sorrow which is sensitive to the slightest touch of love and grace. Not a bitter sorrow this, but one with the sting lessened every time a word or gesture or touch of mine eases the pain of another.

I'm not who I thought I was when I moved here.

God is not who I thought He was, either. I still don't know Him as I'd like to but no worries, we have all of eternity for that.

Here I've prayed for my sons and grandkids, for my sister and brother, for my friends and yes, even for the mother who so betrayed me. I can't afford to reconcile with her (I doubt such a thing is even possible), I've come to see, but I can care from a distance, I can ask for mercy on her behalf, and I do.

I'm leaving; soon the rooms will be empty of my belongings and the walls will no longer echo with my grandkids laughter or with the booming noise that erupts from me without warning. My routines will change, for I'll be sharing a home with more people. My boundaries will have to strengthen and I will need to learn to respect them. If I don't, no one else will.

I will hunger for privacy; I will wish once in a blue moon to be back here in my cramped little snug, away from the busyness of little girls and their ensuing noise and drama. But when I do, oh when I do may I remember that to everything there is a season. My life is about to be invaded, my privacy threatened, but for a very good reason. What joy it will be to know I contribute stability, protection, guidance and love to these two little girls who have been through so much this past year.

Three years ago I began this journey and now, just now, I pause long enough to acknowledge what each of my parts need me to acknowledge: that even if we are moving to a better place there will be trauma during the transition. That's it, they just want to be heard and have their feelings validated.

Three years ago...my how time flies when you're on the wild ride of growth and healing!

Fighting My Selves

I haven't written much about what's been going on in my family life, mainly because of legal issues. To say this has been an extremely difficult year for my family is an understatement. Because of certain events, I will soon be moving in (in a week or so) with my son and his two girls.

Where or how do I begin to process all the changes set in motion by this move? For one thing, my privacy is going to be on the line. For 3 years I've had my own little snug but now I'll be sharing a home with others. Will I know how to set definite boundaries, and respect them myself as I need others to do? Young children don't understand privacy issues; they see their nana and want to spend time with her. And my younger parts, of course, want to come out and play. The trouble is this old body has even less energy and stamina than ever. Will I figure out how best to protect it as much as possible from every day wear and tear?

Sometimes I sit out front smoking, and ponder the many nuances of the upcoming relocation. Our family needs this new beginning, both literally as well as symbolically. It's a good move. I've realized slowly over the past several months that I'm so worn out from attempting to hide my DID. The effort at assimilation (trying to blend in to the world of singletons, pretending to be one of them) leaves me frustrated, angry and exhausted.

Will I ever find respect for my system? Will I ever respect them as the individuals they are, who have been there every step of the way to enable me to function in a world of pain and darkness? Oh, moving is always triggering for me, I know that as well as the reason for the trigger. But this time, I just wonder, can I do more than muddle my way through another move, something that goes beyond barely getting through it by the skin of my teeth? This time, oh I don't know, couldn't I find a way to help my various parts adjust according to their specific needs and fears? I clump them all together but isn't it true, I can't help wondering, that they are each individuals. I assume they all fear the same things when settling into a new home, with its new routines and environment. But maybe not. Maybe they don't each have the same issues in common.

I want to move. I long to move. And with this longing is the deep desire to do right by my individual parts, to treat them gently and not ask of them more than they can handle. I want to acknowledge their existence and, beyond that, have a look out for the pain and anxiety I know this move is going to create (and is already creating.)

I've harbored the idea at the back of my mind, for years now, that maybe if I just ignore my alters they will eventually fade away. Any idea how this is working for me? Yep, not too well. Apparently DID isn't something one can simply wish away. I need to stop fighting what makes me different from the majority of society and be the many-faceted person I became as the result of outrageous abuses.

I need to stop fighting my selves.

I need to.

Resolve

Today I'm thinking not of your typical New Year's resolutions, but the amount of resolve it takes to endure a messed-up childhood. I'm thinking of the strength necessary to carry one throughout the years of trauma set in motion by abusers of children.

Resolutions? I had plenty of them as a kid, but not the kind you might list on paper, determined to be a better person in the following year. My resolutions were more along the lines of resolving to not let my abusers see me cry. I sensed there was a part of me, deep inside, which no one else could touch. Call it what you will, I knew instinctively that as long as my abuser couldn't get to it then somehow I'd still have some kind of "me" intact.  And so I resolved to keep hidden my deepest treasures, which included my most secret dreams and fears. No one would ever know they existed because I refused to name them, thus robbing them of any tangible existence.

The fact that my abuser's actions (crimes) against me caused me to create different personalities, or parts, to survive doesn't mean there was no authentic me in residence inside my DID system. I suspect my truest self has been strongly guarded for decades, shielded by the very parts I created in order to face the unimaginable horrors my life had become. I don't know how often (if ever) I catch glimpses of this authentic self. Maybe I never do make contact with her, and maybe it's not even important that I do. What I know without a doubt is that I had the resolve it took to get through those horrible years, and it follows that if I could survive that I can survive the aftermath.

Healing, growth, recovery: all words that rub me the wrong way, for they focus too much on self. I don't want to be in the spotlight--not even in my own spotlight. I want to simply live without every moment having to give thought to whether or not I'm showing signs of growth, or with the disturbing realization that I'm not responding to (or interacting with) life in a way that I imagine a whole, healthy individual would.

There is always tension between the life I live on the surface and the life I long to live, freely and spontaneously. At times I despair of ever living with any sense of spontaneity, for I go about my days guarded and vigilant, never fully relaxed in the moment. I think it must be this way for all abuse survivors, but I don't know if that's so.

If I resolve anything at the beginning of this new year it will be to try to cut myself some slack. I've a tendency to be too hard on myself, which only results in being even more uptight. This in turn leads to being even harder on myself: oh, what an endless cycle of self-censure and shame!

I resolve to seek ways to be gentle with myself, for I've been through a war of sorts and I still have many "miles to go before I sleep."

Miss Grumpy

Anyone who knows anything at all about me will heartily agree when I state that I'm not a morning person. There is nothing I like about the first hour or so of a new day, for it's actually painful for me (mentally and emotionally) to ease into a brand new day.

I don't mean to be a grump. I don't want to be one of those people no one dares approach before noon, for fear of getting their heads bit off.

My typical waking-up-process begins with a throbbing headache, always. This is often accompanied by half-remembered nightmares and/or dread of what the next 24 hours hold. As a child I became adept at expecting the worst, for life taught me to live in fear of the other shoe dropping. I became so skilled at dreading what lay around every corner that I lost the ability to appreciate the moment I was already in.

Each new day is another opportunity for getting hit up the side of the head with something awful. I battle this attitude/expectation daily, for just as I don't want to be a big old morning grump I don't cherish the idea of going through my days as an Eyeore. Deliberately I force my mind and imagination to consider my present blessings as well as the possibility of new blessings. I don't mind that this is an ongoing learning process; I rather like that I've finally arrived at the point in life where I can see my tendency towards negativity, and do something about it. For decades I couldn't see my own negativity, nor how it affected me, much less do anything about it.

I stumble out of bed each morning battling my past before I'm even fully awake. Well, that's okay. At least I'm battling it rather than falling in a pathetic heap of pitiful surrender.

The other day, after receiving a phone call minutes after fumbling my way into the kitchen for morning coffee, this is what hit me: isn't it possible that at least part of my early morning grumpiness comes from the aftermath of all those middle-of-the-night invasions perpetrated by my abuser? How did it affect me to be startled awake by him bending over me, fondling me or, worse, scooping me up and carrying me clear to the laundry room, off of the garage, to rape me? I'm thinking it had to have affected me deeply, but I don't remember.  I remember the invasions, or some of them, but I don't know what I felt at the time.

Let's face it, what I see clearly now is that being awakened earlier than I'd like doesn't simply make me angry or grumpy, it infuriates me. Beyond reason. Yes, I hide it well, but I experience a wild rage all the same. And it's not just about being awakened unexpectedly, though that is when the rage is at its wildest. Even the simple act of waking up safe in my own bed infuriates me.

I may have to deal with this particular repercussions from my childhood abuse for the rest of my life, but I find hope in the fact that I'm beginning to understand why I dread going to bed at night, and why each morning I awaken angry and grumpy.

My True Value

The other day an insight into the way in which I've always handled any emotional upset in my relationships struck me. I was thinking about an old friendship which lasted 20 years and how, during those years, I never felt comfortable standing up for myself. When my friend was overbearing, perhaps insensitive and domineering, my automatic thought was, "But how can I complain when she's been so generous with me?"

The insight that came out of nowhere hinged on the memory of my mother's cold outrage the day I told her, when I was 15, that I wanted to move in with my real father. Having witnessed her hubby molesting me, you'd think no explanation was needed as to why I wanted to move out. You'd think that that one moment in time, when she walked in on him abusing me, would be all the insight needed to understand where my desire to move out was coming from.

Instead, my mother said, "How can you be so ungrateful when your father (meaning my stepfather) has been such a good provider?"

Generostiy. Gratitude. Yes, one should appreciate the generosity of others, and be grateful. But surely this was a warped message, this insistence on my seeing and acknowledging the material comforts provided by my stepfather while at the same time his sins against my body went unremarked.

And so I've been mulling all of this over, for the first time putting my willingness to let others--especially those who help me out financially--walk all over me, disregarding the negative by focusing on the positive. But is it truly a postive to receive such help when there are obviously such strong emotional strings attached?

To have someone generously help me out in a pinch is wonderful, but not if the implication is that it's okay to mistreat me because in a sense I am now in that person's debt.

It's telling that my mother's spontaneous response to my request for permission to move out of her household was an angry guilt trip based on my stepfather's provision. After all, she ran off with him while still married to my father because he made good money. She based her marriage to him on financial security, so of course she took great offense to my not appreciating the better things in life.

How can you explain to someone with such rickety values that to you the better things in life revolve around one's basic human right and need to be protected, loved, valued? I was only 15 at the time, and hardly aware of what it was about my mother's response that was so out of whack. I knew only that we were not only on two different pages, but we weren't even in the same book.

I don't like the feeling of being backed into a corner because of a benefactor's assumption that I belong there due to their "generosity." I don't like the dreaded feeling of not being able to express myself honestly because I will come off as sounding like an ingrate. And I most of all do not like money when it is used to keep in slavery one who has yet to discover her true value.