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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 Creativity (14)


Sew Sew

My day has been so-so, or rather, sew-sew.

Up until several years ago I spent a lot of time sewing softies. I derived a certain degree of pleasure (usually) out of creating a one-of-a-kind doll out of whatever odds and ends I had lying around. It was a challenge to make something up as I went along, and except for technical difficulties with my sewing machine, I mostly enjoyed the process.

Not so much any more.

I'd promised these softies to a cousin's grandkids for Christmas, and whatever flaws I may have not following through on a promise is not one of them. Even though I've bitten off a bit more than I can chew in regards to making Christmas gifts, I was determined to get these done in time to pack them up and send them on their way.

What you see in the photos is the not unpleasant final result. What you don't see is that each of the little friendly monsters took about half of a day to create. One false start after another had me longing to scrap the whole project and make some excuse to my cousin....but, I couldn't. I wasn't a Girl Scout for nothing!

Oh I know that old saying: all's well that ends well. And in this case I can say that's true. Whew, what a mess I made of things. I believe I went through about 3 different versions of each little monster before I came up with something that pleased me.

So that's done. And please, may I never have to sew again: amen!


The Artist Formerly Known as M

My 7 year old granddaughter, Maddy, never ceases to amaze me. She possesses a self-assurance I don't think I've experienced at any age.

We were talking about how high my bed is, and how it can be hard to climb into. She said that when I got older she'd probably have to help me climb up.

"Only by then you'll be so old I'll probably be calling you Grandma," she said.

"Nana," I corrected.

"No, I think when you're that old I'll call you Grandma. And I'll say, Come on, Grandma, I have things to do. But I wonder," she said, pausing to ponder where her thoughts were leading her, "what I'll be busy doing, like when I'm 15 or older."

I asked what she wanted to be when she grew up and she got an indulgent smile on her face, as if speaking to someone who wasn't quite all there.

"An artist," she said.

"You could finish high school and then go on to art college," I suggested. Maddy scrunched up her face and said, "You silly, Nana. I'm already an artist."

"Oh I know that," I assured her, "but you could learn more techniques and--"

"I'm already an artist," she said, and that was that.

Later, on my drive home, I got to thinking how she isn't so unlike my 7 year old self as I might have thought. It was at that age that I wrote my first short story and knew, just as Maddy knows without doubt about her artist self, that I was born to write.

I haven't exactly overflowed with confidence in other areas of life. It's not that I'm always so confident about my writing either, but I've never wavered in my belief that I'm a writer, and that's something altogether different.

And her amusement at my insinuation that she could become what she knows she already is? I get that. Over the years I've run into individuals who, upon reading my writing for the first time, have made comments such as, "Oh, you should be a writer!" Some sarcastic part of me always wants to come back with, "Wow, why didn't I think of that?!"

Maddy loves to write and illustrate books, and sometimes ropes me into sharing her creative process. She knows I'm a writer or, at least, that I say I am but I don't think it has much meaning to her just yet. Right now she's all about discovering the depths of her own artistic self, and I think that's a wonderful place for her to be.


When Duty Turns into Delight

Slouched in bed with a hot lavender rice-filled bag slung around my neck, my old bones slowly relax beneath the comfort of clean sheets, and the warmth from my electric blanket.

I'm just about done in, but I did it to myself. Today was another no school day for my granddaughters, so I reported for duty bright and early.

How was I to know someone would send them valentines with money enclosed? Could I have predicted that, suddenly flush with money, they'd use their considerable charms to wheedle me into taking them to the dollar store?

"We can get glitter and paper and glue, and all kinds of craft stuff, Nana," M. told me, serious as can be. "You'd  like that. We know how much you love doing crafts."

A. joined in with a solemn nod. With her glasses on she can look solemn indeed.

"But maybe you'd like to save your money," I began feebly. "Maybe save up for something special."

"Nana," M. remonstrated, "It's Valentine's Day. I'm sure you'd like us to make you a valentine, and we can't do that without supplies."

I hadn't realized prior to her making this remark that I'd had my heart set on receiving valentines.

"You won't be able to get everything you want," I said, knowing it was no use. "You'll fight because you'll want to share each other's supplies, and that won't be any fun."

"No we won't!" they both cried, and that was it. I could have stood my ground, but we had the entire blank day looming before us. Even I, who would much rather stay put whenever possible, craved some sort of outing.

"Okay then," I said. "We'll go. But no fighting or we won't be doing any crafts."

My, they were so polite, even generous with one another. Insisting that of course they didn't have to each buy their own glue, because they could share. Allowing the other to have first choice in what kind of tablet to choose, and what color of scissors they preferred.

Back home it continued just as smoothly. Both of them as kind and generous as could be. We drew, cut out hearts, made merry with the paint and glitter, and extravagantly praised one another's creative efforts.

"Good job, A.," M. praised, as A. showed us the paper she'd filled with puff balls of various colors.

"Ooh, Nana, I guess you're so good at making hearts because your dad was an artist," M. said. "Of course when I get older I'll probably be better too, but I don't think mine looks too bad."

"It's beautiful, M," her sister gushed. "You did such a good job."

No one spilled the paint or glue. Nana spilled half a container of silver glitter.

Upon completion the valentines and various works of art were consigned to what M. dubbed "the drying area," the farthest end of the table.

After an hour or so I called a break. Much to my relief no one disagreed. Much to my further relief no one wanted to go back for another round of crafts. I guess you can only be crafty for so long before the old attention span begins to mosey off in another direction.

Their stepmother left me a box of mint Girl Scout cookies, the same kind I once peddled as a knobby kneed 10 year old. When I mentioned this to the girls, explaining that I sold them door to door, they couldn't grasp the concept of a little girl being allowed to sell cookies by herself.

"You mean your parents didn't go with you?" M. asked, as if genuinely concerned for my little girl self.

"No, I went alone. Or sometimes a friend might go with me, but no parents."

The girls exchanged glances, obviously perplexed at a world in which such a thing could happen.

"The world was different back then," I said, not wanting to use the word safer.

"I guess it was," M. said, by way of summing up the subject and totally missing my meaning. "I mean, you didn't have iphones or ipads, or even computers, so I guess selling cookies was something to do, right Nana?" Clearly she felt sorry for my younger, technologically deprived self.

Oh, what a funny, exasperating, endearing day it's been! The girls shared with me some of the candy they'd received, my son sent me a Happy Valentine's Day text, and I arrived home to a sweet card in my mailbox. Interspersed with all this were little texts from my BFF, making cute valentine jokes, which I promptly responded to with goofy jokes of my own.

How good to lie in bed, to have a bed to lie in, and recuperate. A duty done can be such a sweet thing, especially when we don't allow ourselves to be constrained by that word duty, and all the bleakness it implies.

Duty brought me to my granddaughter's door; my delight with their company,  as well as a sense of adventure and a sense of humor, turned that duty into a day that made all 3 of us smile. Not everything remained polite and generous: there were various squabbles throughout the rest of the day. But we got through them one way or another, managing to get to a better place when one of them felt left out, unappreciated or second best--which is par for the course.

This day was given over entirely to others. I don't wish it back, don't wish I could have spent the day at home, doing what I wanted to do. I've a growing apprehension of time flying by, never to be recaptured. I choose, even amid the exhaustion of it all, to relish these hours and days spent together. The ever changing expressions, the cute little jokes, the spontaneous fashion shows they insist I judge, even the childish squabbles will one day be but fond memories.

The fact is, I'm so hugely blessed. To have such sweet grandchildren, and to be able to spend the holiday with two of them. To have those who welcome me, who long for my company.

And now here I am, safely tucked under the covers, relishing the enjoyment of little crunchie-cronies (sweets) that I've saved for the evening, my fat cat purring at the end of the bed, and the tv murmuring in the background as I form words with which to frame this day which will be hung in the gallery on the walls of my memory.




Stew bubbling on the stove, permeating my little apartment, and here I sit at my desk forging away at the merest wisp of a new poem, trying to bend it into the best form to express its own unique self. I've been puttering like this all day, finding half-finished poems and stories I work on until another catches my interest, or the phone rings distracting me from my muse.

I've worked on my DID novel, so deeply submerged in its story line and characters that it was a wrench bringing myself back to surface to gaze, a bit stunned, at the reality of my room with all its familiar furnishings and quirky little touches of colorful art, and books strewn everywhere, awaiting my focused attention.

Sometimes as I wrote I burst into giggles at a sentence which especially pleased me, or reminded me of something in my own DID system which I find endearing or just plain ludicrous. What a pleasant way to spend a chilly, rainy day! Here, in a universe of my own making, I indulge in a pasttime that is most me: writing. There may be a spring to my step which wasn't there yesterday, for yesterday and for many weeks beyond that I fought the writing impulse as if it were a narcotic I dare not give into yet again.

Last week I stocked up on art supplies: a 12 pack of glitter, a huge drawing pad, and other odds and ends I mean to loan to my different personalities for their creative expression. Today I received in the mail the old-fashioned label maker I bought off of Ebay. I can't wait to use it, though for what I've no idea.

I trampled on my new glasses a couple of weeks ago and now they are askew, straining my eyes and giving me a headache. Still I forge on, driven by a sense of time running out and of wanting to get things on paper now.

A few days ago, in spite of not being able to see all that well, I made a couple of wallets I gave to my granddaughters, Maddy and Anna. I used vinyl and art work from some vintage children's books. I love small projects such as this one, the kind which only take half an hour to whip up, so that they don't take over my entire day and leave me at the end of the day frazzled with exhaustion.

For now I'm at peace with my life, even hopeful  that I will continue to better accept my system and find creative ways of relating to my various parts.

I'm off to the kitchen to stir my stew, yum-yum!







Just Plain Fun

My creativity Where I Liveneeds a boost so when I came across a website called Sketchfu, I just If We Were Flowershad to give it a try. I'm having a blast with this (and spending way too many hours on the computer.) Not great art, but fun! Here are some of my originals.  You can click here to see more of my silly creations. Enjoy!