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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.


Were you raised by a narcissist? Chances are you were if you suffered any form of childhood abuse. The Little Red Survivor website is filled with excellent articles examining the many faces of narcissism.


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 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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Entries in Blogging (13)


What I've Been Up To

Sometimes, upon revisiting my blog after an absence, I am captured anew by how very much I like it, and I nearly gasp my pleasure.

Oh, it's not that it's award worthy, or anything all that special . . .  except to me. Nearly 10 years of blogging! When I berate myself for being so behind in all my writing projects, I've only to visit my blog and think of how many words have been written over the years, and my spirit is calmed.

For nearly 10 years I've been writing my truth. That's not nothing. That's something. Whether or not I'm read very much isn't an issue. Once upon a time I checked my stats every single day, and panicked if they plunged, but no more. I'm secure enough now in the pure simplicity of writing truth that it hardly matters how many read me. Of course I want my words to woo others out of darkness into light, but before anything else my words need to help me. If they don't make it possible for me to advance just a bit away from that house of horrors on Brightwood Street, well then I question just how honest I'm really being after all.

I love my blog, warts and all. I'll never get it to look exactly as I picture it, but no matter. It's mine, it's writing my abuser never saw and--especially due to the fact that he's dead--can never snatch away from me, as he used to do with my pencil tablet.

All mine. Delicious sounding words!

I created this, I made something out of the darkness into which my abuser plunged me back in that tiresome era of my childhood. Sometimes I'm still back there, parts of me groaning and crying and despairing. For several days now I've flashed on my stepsister, Doreen, and the sound of her beatings coming to me from the garage as I stood at the kitchen sink, stricken with horror and fear, washing dishes in scalding water. Doreen, whimpering in the garage, is what comes to me, unbidden, and a little shiver runs up my spine.

Doreen didn't get to live long enough to delve into her pain and live beyond the wreck of childhood. She didn't get to live long enough to be diagnosed with DID, or even long enough to be reunited with the 2 children taken away from her.

I write this blog for me: that's one truth. I write it, at times, with Doreen breathing over my shoulder, as pesky as she was in reality, always wanting to tag after me. I'm not as stuck in the past as I used to be, not after all these years of doggedly keeping this blog. I see what I've been up to here; I've been writing my stepdad out of my soul, and my mother too. I'm writing myself out of that house of incest, and I've been preparing to take Doreen with me now, as I couldn't then when leaving home at the age of 15.

"Let her go with you," my mother used to say when Doreen would trail after me as I prepared to go to Bec's, or walk to the store to spend my allowance. "It won't kill you to take her with you."

There is something, at last, my mother was absolutely right about.

I resented Doreen's dogged presence then, but now I consider it a blessing to my soul to pluck her memory from the obscurity of being the one not loved, and lead her into that place in which most days I reside, trailblazed by the writing of this blog: a rugged, wide and wild place called Redemption.


I Don't Write Pretty

Like any proud mother, I admit I'm a sucker for even the faintest praise of my baby (this blog). When someone unexpectedly offers such words, I practically glow with embarrassed pride. I'm not seeking fame here; what I strive for is to share my reality with those who can benefit by reading my truth, and to be a little lantern along the way of their healing journey, pointing them to the proper pathway.

My words here often fumble, because the truth of being a survivor of sexual abuse sometimes defies definition or expression. But I try. To not communicate what I can of my tribulations would cut against the grain. As a writer, this is how I best share my truth: by writing it down word by word, sentence by sentence, until a picture begins to emerge of my little abused self, suffering untold agonies of spirit and flesh--- until my readers begin to grasp what it is to grow into adulthood not only with that abused child still living inside of me, but many others children of different ages as well. Not everyone who suffers childhood sexual abuse splits off into multiplicity, but I did. I did, and this is my story of how Dissociative Identity Disorder enabled me to endure what no child should have to endure.

While it's true that I've been considering winding my blog down to a close, I find myself mentally and emotionally rejuvenated by the discovery that one more person has read it for the first time, and has found it helpful.

I've written about how sometimes I feel shame that I'm nearing 60 and still wrestling so much with my childhood issues. Shouldn't I have arrived by now at some sure-footed destination? Shouldn't my healing be complete? I find that nothing could be further from the truth. I've made progress mostly in baby steps. And maybe a reason to keep on chronicling my journey is to show that there isn't any true cut and dried end to this business of healing.

I used to feel so inadequate as a multiple, as if I couldn't even get that right! Then I came across the wonderful article On Being a Proper Multiple which assured me there is no right way to do multiplicity. Not everyone is a Sybil. DID doesn't manifest itself the same in every person, for we are all unique and every situation is different in the details of abuse.

Not long after beginning my blog I wrote Unmapped Miles. This was my effort to express the oddity of discovering my multiplicity, and how that discovery made me feel a tentative sort of joy. I love Unmapped Miles, not because it's great writing but because it was the first of my attempts to write my whole truth for once. What a blessing it was to be unshackled, to find my voice as a writer and put in black and white the reality of who I am, not editing out the unpleasantness of growing up as an abused redheaded stepchild.

Today I love my blog. Today I am keeping it going because I can't quite let go. And I'm not even sure I want to let go. Today I heard that someone found my words soothing, and that's apparently all I need to keep the words coming.



Standing at the Crossroads

A little over 4 years ago I wrote a post entitled, The End of an Era? In this post I wondered if it was time to shut down my blog. Did I really have any more to say about Dissociative Identity Disorder? I'd come to a crossroads for, it seemed to me,  there wasn't one more cotton-pickin' thing I could possibly write on this subject.

Apparently I was wrong! I've kept things going much longer than I thought possible and now, well now here I am once more at the same crossroads.

Many changes have taken place since I last toyed with the idea of calling it quits. For one thing the little circle of DID blogging friends I met online had dwindled down to one. I no longer felt I had a support system in cyberspace; I deeply missed the regular comments, the bantering back and forth and the visiting of one another's blogs.

A couple of years ago my life veered in a direction I couldn't have foreseen. One of my sons gained permanent custody of his little girls, and he needed my help in caring for them and providing them with a stable environment.

Suddenly my life was a whirlwind of driving back and forth to school, giving baths, helping with homework, laundry, cooking, cleaning and grocery shopping. I barely had time to think about my DID much less write about it. I look back at this time with mixed feelings: relief that it's over with and my old body can take it easy again, mingled with the old familiar separation anxiety I experience whenever life takes me out of my current living situation.

Blogging is not what it used to be for me. I know there isn't the need to explain or defend my thoughts and feelings on this. But I need to write them out so I can fully realize just what I do think and feel. Writing about my daily life has been a big part of that life for 7 years.

I miss my cyber buddies so much that at times it feels as if I'm blogging to myself. Their absence has dulled my former enjoyment in getting online each morning and writing about my world. I know things change, and sometimes even for the better. But I don't like this particular change one little bit.

Should I let go, close this chapter of my life and continue on to other things? Maybe. My readership has dwindled and, though I don't write to become popular or famous, I do miss the interaction and feedback that has been sadly lacking for several years.

I'm going to ruminate on this for a while. There is no deadline looming over my head. No one will much care, I suspect, either way. No one but me. I think it's fair to say that the biggest consideration in all this has to be for my emotional well-being and the health of my DID system.

I've loved blogging but at times I've also dreaded it. Blogging about my disorder has definitely stretched me in ways I wasn't expecting. I've blogged when sicker than a dog, or when I was sick with the fear that my son would come out of his coma a vegetable--or not come out of it at all.

I've blogged during the stressful time that my grandkids were missing, and I didn't know if or when I'd see them again.

Blogging helped me tremendously to hang on to my wobbly emotional equilibrium every time my mother came to town to visit my sister, who lived in my complex.

Without my blog I wouldn't have had much outlet for the many, many challenges life has thrown at me. My blog has been, at times, my sanity. My comfort zone.

I've blogged about a lost love, reuniting with my estranged sister of 8 years, and receiving a written apology from my mother. I've blogged about my softies and other art projects, I've written about triggers and flashbacks, and the pain I still feel today from being torn from my father at the age of 7.

I've covered just about everything fit to share with my readers, and it's helped me. In ways I probably don't quite understand, it's helped. And it's always been my hope that some words of mine have helped others as well.

And so I stand again at the crossroads, knowing that the last thing I wish to do is to blog out of habit. May I avoid the drudgery of habit! There is no authenticity in doing things on automatic pilot. Above all, I want my blog to be authentic.

Something, I think, is likely to happen soon. Either I'll decide that my blogging days have come to an end, or something will happen to infuse me with a new enthusiasm for my blog. I don't think I have a preference, really. As long as something changes one way or the other, I'm good.



Look At My Heart

This is embarrassing to admit, but I realized today that I have about 4 different versions of this blog out in the blogosphere. I found myself on one of them, and began reading some posts from about 5 years ago. As I read, what unfolded in front of me was, well, my heart.

Look at my heart! I wanted to shout, see how I've shared it so freely (if fumblingly at times) for all to see? I nearly gasped, I was so taken aback by the sweet rememberance of those earlier blogging days when I hadn't a clue in the world as to what I had to say, or what anyone would want to hear.

Somewhere along the journey of telling my truth, my heart slipped out a bit. I thought I was mostly recording and dissecting facts, but I see now there's more depth here than I ever knew during my apprenticeship as a blogger.

Just the titles of some of those old posts gave me a warm feeling. Titles like I Refused to Be Grafted, Until There's No Reason to Hide, or Remembering Happiness. There's a sweetness (to me) about some of these writings; I can even identify at times various alters who contributed a sentence here and there, wanting to voice their own unique identities, and realites.

What I've accumulated is a chronicle of more than childhood abuses; I've faithfully recorded, to the best of my ability, what it means to live in this world with a fractured mind. I've expressed as best as words can express the sorrow, difficulty and, yes, sometimes the wobbly hope of surviving the aftermath of the unthinkable.

I've never really seen the heart of my writing until now. Pain has blinded me, I suppose. Pain plus the wearying sense that anything I attempt will always, always fall short of its intended purpose.

I saw my heart in my writings and it warmed me. May I never retreat into sour stoicism; may my words be as truthful as can be, but full of heart.




Holding Pattern

Reading old blog posts from several years ago, I realized that I like the old posts better than the recent ones. Part of the reason, I think, is because I used to include more about my family life. I freely shared what was going on with my grandkids and sons, and included tidbits about my domestic putterings. These days, well these days maybe I'm just too tired to write about everything. But I think the real reason for leaving so much out is that I'm overcome with hesitancy.

After my son's accident, and during the time period of his lawyer preparing a lawsuit, it came to my attention that the lawyer had found my blog, and had several people reading it to make sure I hadn't written anything which might throw a monkey wrench into what he was trying to accomplish. The result of discovering that these strangers, these professional strangers, were reading about my childhood abuse and my efforts to recover from them had a strange affect on me. I've never quite been able to get over that sense of someone reading over my shoulder. Seems I'm frozen up, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to enjoy those earlier times of blogging about anything old thing I felt like sharing.

It's sad that this is what has become of my blog, the one place I should be able to speak my truth. After all, that's pretty much why I began blogging in the first place. I needed one place in my little universe where I didn't have to pretend. I'm wondering if once I settle into my own place again, and am not burdened with so many responsibilities--well maybe then I can relax and put behind me those awkward days of almost hating to blog for fear I would say the wrong thing and blow any chances my son had for winning his lawsuit.

Oh how many things I've put on hold! I'm waiting to get settled into my next place before I can begin (hopefully) to blog freely. I'm waiting to be able to return to the novel and memoir I'm aching to write. To once more pick up my knitting needles and create a one of a kind something out of soft yarn.

I'm waiting until the next chapter of my life opens before I consider, once more, the idea of getting into therapy. Of going on a road trip with my best friend.

Like an airplane circling the airport, waiting for its turn to land, I'm in a holding pattern. Wait until I get moved, I tell myself, thinking of the projects I'll resume and of no longer having to get up so early to babysit.

Wait until I'm all settled in; I'll get back on track, find my bearings, resume my rhythm.

I hope I'm not kidding myself. I hope these are all valid reasons for having set so many things aside, that I haven't instead turned into the world's biggest procrastinator.

For now the holding pattern remains. I'll share what I can comfortably share about my everyday world, hoping that some little something I share will encourage others. I do miss my more rambly posts: to me they seem more authentic, more comfortable, more me.