Getting Down to Basics
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This area is reserved for the tidbits I know hope will be of interest to my readers. Check back often for regular updates. 

 

Check out this article about the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomena, including a list of organizations which strongly oppose this sick trend, and have implemented various means of helping women who have been sexually victimized.

 

It's been a long time coming---7 years to be exact---but finally email notifications for new BD posts is available. Sign up today and never again miss another scintillating, moving post. You know you want to!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Kate Is Rising has an excellent Survivors Resources page which directs you to numerous websites dealing with issues of abuse, healing and recovery. Please bear in mind that the information on these pages may be triggering.

 

 

There's lots of good stuff at the Dissociation Blog Showcase, including a list of 180 blogs dealing with some aspect of this disorder. 

 

 

On the Overcoming Sexual Abuse site there's an article entitled, "It's Not About You Mom" which I could have written myself. I bet many of my readers could say the same!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Thursday
Feb042016

The End of Surface Things

This morning I awoke to the news, posted on Facebook, that my mother had died.

I suppose I'm too raw to be writing this, but here I go. Earlier when the tears I've begrudged myself since childhood burst forth, the thought occured to me that, of all my siblings, my grief is doubled. I must grieve the loss of someone who gave me life, and then grieve for the love she never gave me.

For all the decades since my early childhood, our family has survived on lies and distortions, on public nicities and filthy things swept under the carpet. For the first time since my 7th year I stand here, emotionally raw, and not caring who knows. No more surface niciites, is what I tell myself. Let the truth explode and fall where it may.

I know there are those who will assume I have no feelings about my mother's death because we were estranged for over 10 years. If anything, that estrangement makes the fact of her death nearly unbearable. No chance of resolution now. No more questions and half-truth answers. I'm set free by her death, yes, in some ways. In more ways than I'm sure I'm able to realize just now I am never to experience full freedom from the bondage of being the unloved daughter. How could I be? It's a testament to the primal need in all of us to bond with the one who gives us life that, in not having that bond, we suffer beyond human expression. 

I'm not taking phone calls nor answering texts. I can't. If I speak of this, the death of my mother, I will not be able to keep myself together enough to get through the next minute. Even as I pull away, avoiding those who mean well, I think how stupid it is that I feel I must tend to my wounds alone, like an animal in the forest. But it's how I've gotten through my life, and too late to begin learning new ways now. Or too soon.

I would not have wanted my mother's death in exchange for my freedom. No part of me wished for her to die from the excruciating pain of colon cancer. Earlier I went on FB and posted a photo of me, when I was about 2, with my mother. I wrote her name and her date of birth and date of death, and then: RIP.

I felt I could do that much to honor her: acknowledge publicly her death.

Behind and next to and inside of everything I think is the whispered question, But why couldn't she love me?

 


 

 

Monday
Jan182016

Full Disclosure

I hadn't meant to ever post here again. For nearly 10 years I've blogged about my Dissociative Identity Disorder and, for the most part, enjoyed doing so. Or if not exactly enjoyed it, I got something out of it. This blog was my heart and soul, a sort of journal depicting my journey back through and then, hopefully, back out of my haunted childhood.

I'm done with it, is what I thought. Done with trying to make sense of senseless evil. Done with lamenting what happened to me, and what I never had or experienced because of years of sexual violence. No one (especially me) cares to hear it anymore, I decided. Enough, already.

In an unexpected roundabout way, I found myself on my blog just now. There was something I needed to check on and while doing so I noticed a comment awaiting my moderation. So of course I had to read it, being curious and all. So I read it, and responded, and then realized that I do need to say a bit more. I don't want to start blogging again with any regularity; I've moved on and, besides, I've got other websites going that need my attention. But the thing is, my mother moved to town about half a year ago. She lives just 10 minutes away with Sissyface. And, as a matter of fact, my mother is dying.

Just now I watched again the short video Inside which shows what it's like inside the mind of DID. I watched it because I needed to. I needed to remind myself that this is what goes on in my brain, in spite of my refusing to think about all the clashing personalities residing there. I'm too good at denial, expert at hiding and burying things, like a dog burying a bone. Just like a dog's ratty old gnawed on bone, this won't stay buried; I'm digging it up because, well, my mother's dying. (There is some kind of a joke or symbolism here, speaking of bones. How often my mother used to dig her fingernail into my shoulder while crying, "I've got a bone to pick with you!")

I don't know what to do with this fact. I don't know how to feel. I'm angry much of the time at the thought of her wasting away from colon cancer. I'm not sure of the source of that anger, but probably it has to do with her slipping out of this world without having ever held herself accountable for anything.

I'm angry too that there are no death bed confessions of guilt. At least my stepdad did that much, called me up weeping and begging forgiveness. It's not even that I want my mother to ask my forgiveness, but if she doesn't then it confirms everything I've believed for so long: that she's not sorry one bit.

Maybe there is a part of me relishing in the knowledge of her physical sufferings, but if so I'm not aware of it. I don't take pleasure in the sufferings of others, regardless. I just don't. I can't. I know too well the familiar texture and weight of suffering and what it can do to the soul. So I don't enjoy my mother's process of dying. I simply wish that for once, just once in her life she could make full disclosure.

I know to wish this is foolish, childish even. Why didn't you love me? is really the basis for everything. I don't need to ask why she didn't protect me, not if she could tell me why she didn't love me. That would answer a whole lot of other questions. But she is taking everything I need to know with her to the grave, stingily holding them tightly to her chest like a seasoned poker player.

And then it's not even just about that. There's the keening sorrow that I never had a mother in any true sense of the word. I'm only beginning to get that beyond a surface level. I'm only beginning to realize the horror of being born to a woman who never mothered me. The things I've missed out on! The deep bond we never had because, because why? She couldn't love me? Wouldn't love me?

What do you do when the mother who never loved you is dying? This is it, is what I tell myself. The only shot you get, your only mother. But, comes my exasperated response, but she was never a mother. How much is that my fault?

The thing to do is keep on living my routine life. That's all I can do. When thoughts of my mother dying trouble me from time to time I will have to distract myself, for now is not the time to grieve her death.

I haven't even begun grieving her life . . .

 

 

Monday
Apr272015

Moving Forward (With or Without You)

I'm learning, finally, to separate my issues from those that don't belong to me. What is to be done with accusations from someone you care about, and called friend? Normally I would soak up the negative attitude towards me, and the accusations, as if they had to be true because someone else was saying them. It's as if I've not allowed myself to ever stand up for myself against lies told against me, because I automatically assumed that if I were being accused of something, I must be guilty.

I know plenty about guilt, especially false guilt. The stepfather was an expert at dumping guilt on others. I suppose that was his way of steering clear of dealing with his own issues and yes, his own very real guilt.

When someone, over the course of years, develops the habit of emotionally and verbally beating you up, at some point you need to take stock and decide if you are willing to have this person continue to abuse you. Is it worth it, just to keep the friendship going? And is it truly a friendship by any definition of the word if you are always the one who is wrong, and they are always right?

I didn't realize, until my friend very abruptly ended our friendship, that having her back in my life, after a few years of estrangement, had been burdensome to me. One of the first things she did upon reentering my life was to friend me on FB, and then about a week later to suggest we no longer be FB friends because I'd posted something she didn't agree with.

I didn't know that friends had to agree about everything. It was easier to unfriend her, if that's what made her happy, than to argue about it. But too often I've had to be the one to take a few steps back, and change who I am in order to measure up to some invisible standard she seems to have for friendship.

It's a revelation to me that you can care about someone, but still let go. You can wish them well, and not bear any ill will towards them, but still be okay with them bowing out of your world.

I've only had a couple of friends in my entire lifetime who made me feel inferior by the way in which they treated me. I'm getting too old to deal with having to defend myself every time I turn around, and I suspect friendship isn't meant to be that way. That's too much like how my stepdad was, and also a number of men I've been involved with in the past.

I'm figuring this life out as I go, just as I imagine everyone else is doing. I feel that I've learned a lot from everyone I've ever been close to, and for that reason I can't regret having known any of them. But oh the freedom of giving myself permission to not persue someone who no longer esteems me--if they ever did.

I'm stronger than I used to be. I can continue on this path I'm on with or without those I once called friends. And I can continue loving those who, for whatever reason, have chosen to move forward without me.

 

 

 

Thursday
Apr162015

Throwback Thursday

I've written so many blog posts over the past 9 years that I can't possibly remember them all. I don't, in fact, remember writing many of them. Even the subject or title of the post looks foreign to me when I come across it while lollygagging on my blog. This is to be expected when you have separate parts writing your truths.

Sometimes I read an old entry, and  it takes me back to what was happening in my life during the time it was written. I might recall the series of steps or slowly awakening realizations that led me to embrace a long buried truth, or realize something about my childhood that I'd never before considered from a particular angle.

In honor of this crazy journey I've been on for decades as I've attempted to unravel the mystery, not only of my past, but of myself as well, I'll be republishing some of my older posts.

I'd like to initiate Throwback Thursday (hopefully I can remember it each week), and I'll start today's with this post from my original DID blog.

 

Thursday
Apr162015

Beauty in What Remains

Somewhere I ran across the phrase "beauty in what remains," and it got me thinking. How often I've rued the fact that the biggest portion of my life is spent in dealing with my traumatic childhood. You know, as much as I see the need for continued growth and healing, I don't want everything to be about what happened to me on Brightwood Street.

Is there any beauty in what remains? Or did I emerge from the season of childhood stripped of everything human and good and salvageable?

It's easy to slip into the habit of seeing evidences of my brokenness in just about everything; after all, every aspect, every nook and cranny of my being were affected by the ravages inflicted on me by my stepdad. But is that all I'm left with? Is this to be the way it goes for the rest of my life, these constant reminders of those childhood rapings?

The other day, sitting in my car at my granddaughters' school, the person parked next to me blasted their radio. A song from the year I left home, at the age of 15, pounded into my head. I rolled up my windows, but I could still hear and feel the music pulsing all around me.

That was a particularly difficult year for me. I reunited with the father whose absence from the last 8 years of my life had turned him into a stranger I wasn't sure I could trust. I knew the heart of the father whose love had enfolded me during the earlier years of childhood, but what about this man? Was his father heart still to be trusted, or had he changed over the years? I now lived with my father and two older brothers; for all I knew my new home was full of danger at every turn. I hadn't known during those earlier years as the apple of my father's eye that men were to be feared. Now, I knew it all too well.

Listening--involuntarily--to a song from that year kick-started a ripple effect of depression throughout my entire system. This is why I've cut myself off from most music, this is why. I was back in the year 1968, living with the family I'd longed for during the 8 years of my stepfather's reign of terror, but I didn't know them and I hardly trusted them. I had no life skills, nor did I have any clue that the stepfather wasn't the only predator I'd encounter.

That year I hid from my father a vicious rape from the friend of a friend, burying it as deep as I could so no one would guess the shame of that violation. When a man twice my age tried to rape me later that year, I also kept it to myself. Would telling my father have set something into motion? Something that might vindicate me? I couldn't risk the possibility that, like my mother, he might remain passive, unmoved by my sufferings. Better to keep my mouth shut, then.

All this came back to me as the golden oldie came to an end. I sat perfectly still as the song faded, a new thought filling me with cautious excitement. What if instead of allowing triggers to pulverize me, I go one step further? What if I give myself permission to consider how far I've come in the decades since those horrible events?

Yes, I thought, that was an especially horrible year for me. It should have been anything but. That should have been the best year of my life, for not only had I escaped my mother's home but I'd also been reunited with those I loved best. But look: I'm not anything at all like that scared, frozen teenager who couldn't even give herself permission to feel outrage at what had been done to her.

Look how far you've come, I told myself, with growing wonder. You've survived the worst pain, shame and violations imaginable...and you're still here!

I don't ever have to go through that year, or any year, again. Not even one solitary moment or event has to be repeated. It might be repeated in memory, but I will never again physically experience the weight of my stepfather's gut slapping against my pelvic bone, or the terror of the older man attacking me in the dead of night. The memories are painful, but they are only memories. I don't live there anymore, I am here now: here in the present I've  arrived at through sheer stubbornness, and a faith that lit my way, one step at a time.

The memories will come, for as I've said I'm surrounded by triggers everywhere I go. It can't be helped. Even if I never left home there would be triggers: glancing at the bathroom counter and remembering my stepdad plopping me down on the cold counter, naked and riven with shame. Lying in bed at night, half asleep, and suddenly not being able to remember where I am. Is it my old childhood bedroom? I lie in the fetal position, listening for footsteps approaching my door, all my senses on high alert . . .

No, triggers are everywhere, for it's the memories I hold that jump-starts them. That can't be helped. I'm not going to guilt trip myself for experiencing them when they surface. I'm not wallowing in them though, that's the main thing. They may surface, but I can choose to not drag out the memories from the need to wallow in self-pity.

Beauty in what remains? Imagine a child's mind as a beautiful stained glass window, made up of gorgeous colors, reflecting the sun and illuminating all around her. If someone comes along and smashes that beautiful window, the remaining shards and slivers of color would retain their original beauty, but there would no longer be a substantial whole through which the child views the world, and interacts with it.

My mind has been shattered; from time to time I discover remaining shards shining their mute beauty, and I'm infused with hope. Even if that hope lessens, it gets me through the next patch of rough spots until I can once more catch my breath, take it easy, and revel in the knowledge that I have, once again, moved forward. Yes, I must look backwards in order to work through my past, but I can begin to teach myself to use my triggers as a measuring stick of my growth, rather than as sticks with which to beat myself up for having been such a stupid, shameful victim.

I like the idea of beauty in what remains. I like the idea that there is even something of the original me remaining!