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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 DID (42)

Sunday
Sep042016

Passing the Torch

Sometimes I'm weary of the whole DID thing. If it were simply a lifestyle I decided to try out to see if I liked it I would have said long before this, "Uh, thanks but no thanks." 

Recently I read The Minds of Billy Milligan. I found this true account of multiplicity quite intriguing, and that's another thing I don't much care for, that I can read about DID in reference to someone else and even admire that person for persevering and knowing so much about their system. But when it's me and my system? I get exasperated. Impatient. Angry. I don't see one single thing to admire about my own management of a group of insiders I barely know. They are strangers to me, I'm barely aware of their existence most of the time. Reading the Billy Milligan story gave me a bad case of DID envy. I mean, everyone but me (or so it seems) who lives with this disorder knows their system inside and out. Why don't I know mine? Is it because I put up resistance? Are they deliberately in hiding from me, and if so why? If they are here to help then why play hide-and-seek?

Another thing that gripes me is that I'm turning 63 next month and here I am still plodding along not dealing with something I should be dealing with. I've never figured out why this is so hard for me. I can't get to the bottom of it, it's all a murky mystery. I've a sinking feeling it's never going to get any better than this. As Jack Nicolson's character said, "What if this is as good as it gets?" Well it probably is. I mean if I haven't figured this out by now what are the odds I will at some later date when my health is failing, and my memory too?

This is one of those posts that have no real resolution. I didn't think when I began that by the time I reached the end I'd have arrived at any conclusions. So in that respect I'm not disappointed. I'm slightly relieved that I took the time to write this; I'd forgotten how good it feels to blog about my troubles. Whether or not anyone is reading it feels good to write it.

I spent nearly the entire day working on the revision of my poetry book. I don't mention DID in these poems, but they were written about the time in my childhood when I was mauled and raped by my abuser on a regular basis. I'm at the point of editing and so of necessity I must read every word, something I absolutely don't relish. Hard to write such poetry in the first place and double hard to read it later at different stages in your life and not feel as if it's all whining. I swear at one point I wanted to yell, "Just get over it already!"

All kinds of mixed up thoughts ran through my mind while editing. In addition to "just get over it" I found myself thinking, rather defensively, that if I hadn't been raped for 8 years I wouldn't have had to write such poetry in the first place, and wouldn't now be having to edit it in the second place. And then I thought how writing about such violence is supposed to be healing, and sharing your sufferings in the form of writing can be like passing the torch to someone whose pathway has been ill-lit and scary.

So. Here I am passing the torch. I do this in the poetry I so despised today. Forging ahead with the editing even though everything and everyone inside of me was protesting, is me handing that torch over. Everytime I make no explanations or excuses for my often quirky behavior to someone who doesn't know its source, I'm passing on the torch. Because how easy it would be (and has been for much of my life) to laugh along with someone else about what a goof I am, how I can't do anything right and my memory has more holes than swiss cheese, etc. I must make a choice whenever I am met with another's humor or scorn at my ineptness at this whole business of living. I can hide inside my shell, laugh along with them, make up something that sounds halfway credible...or I can do none of those things. Instead, I can take one for the team. Not just my unique little team of insiders but also in the bigger sense of the whole DID community, however small or expansive that might be. If I take one for my team then I'm not adding to the misinformation that's already out there circulating about us. I'm not encouraging the stigma attached to this mental illness by scoffing at it or making myself the butt of a joke.

Passing the torch and taking one for the team--these are two things I can do even though I don't understand the world inside of me. And for now that will have to be enough.

Wednesday
Aug102016

Slogging Through My Blog

I've had it in mind for years to publish my blog posts in book form. Maybe I should have done so years ago when I first had this bright idea. I began yesterday cutting and pasting blog posts into Word documents, in fact spent the entire day on it and am only up to May 2007! I began blogging in 2006, so the task before me is monumental. Fortunately, not every blog post is worth including; I'm attempting to choose the cream of the crop.

One thing I didn't consider at the beginning of this project is that in order to do this I'm going to have to read through every post to see if it's something I want to include. After spending the entire day on this yesterday I emerged from the work in a sort of trance, caught between the past of 2006-2007, and my life today.

I had to remind myself why I thought this was a good idea. I recalled wanting to do my bit in demystifying DID. I wanted people to understand that it's not as Hollywood so often portrays it. Maybe what I should have asked myself is, does anyone care? Will publishing volumes of my blog posts really make any kind of a difference in anyone's life? And there's the rub: how can I possibly know that?

I want my sufferings to be of some use in this world. Maybe someone will read them and realize they are not alone in their own struggle to live as a multiple in a singleton society. Maybe someone will read my words and understand a spouse or sibling or friend just a little better.

I want to proceed with this project because I think that it has to matter to someone, somewhere. But at the same time the last thing I want to do is to slog back through that mucky past. To be done with it once and for all, wouldn't that be something?

 

 

Saturday
Oct112014

What Lies Beneath

I'm going to write this the best I can but it won't be enough.

For most of my life I've been fighting the darkness, not only in the sense of not wanting it to consume or destroy me, but I've mostly been fighting to keep it hidden inside me where it belongs. That's been my life's agenda, though I didn't realize this until very recently.

When a dear friend told me (in response to my asking) why she had a such an enthusiastic response to a bit of my writing, she told me that it didn't have the singsong quality to it typical of much of what I write. She said the writing in question was raw and didn't attempt to muffle my pain, and every word wasn't perfectly manicured. Perfectly manicured. That resonated: my mother was always perfectly manicured. My stepdad (my abuser) got manicures. Our lawn was always perfectly manicured.

I asked for this person's opinion because I value it, but her response broad sided me. I didn't know much of my writing was written in singsong. Did I even know I tend to muffle my pain? Yes and no. Yes in the sense that I try to find something, any small thing, in every post that is of a positive nature. But I thought that was in contrast to the raw and the ugly, not in place of it.

I'm so glad I took the plunge. I'm so glad I asked for my friend's perspective on my writing because her assessment was the dash of cold water in the face I so needed.

Do I muffle my pain? Yes, I can see that I do. I muffle everything. Why wouldn't I when I've lived for decades believing I don't have the right to my own feelings and thoughts, much less responses to abuse?

I smooth everything over. When I was a teen being raped repeatedly by an older man, I drove my pain underground, did my best to forget it. What was the point in telling anyone? I didn't believe it would make any difference at all except to make me the painful center of attention I didn't want. I didn't ask for it and I didn't want it.

I never told my father what this man was doing to me. I never told him of the abusive relationships that followed. I smiled and nodded, I lived my life in singsong, truth be told. I did. I do. And now that I know it I can see beneath the surface (varnished like the deceptively beautiful hardwood floors of the House of Incest from childhood) to the rottenness that lies beneath.

I've been surrounded since a young age by alters who each play a role in my extensive denial. Yes, they are me but they're not really me, they're separate from me. So if one of them holds my body memories captive and I need those memories back, I feel that something has been stolen and held hostage. It's like all these different parts of my body and soul, parts which were torn to pieces and parceled out, are strewn about between these parts and nobody asked me, is it okay if I take this? Can I keep this? Did I create these parts to help me survive? I'm told I did. I don't remember doing so, which leaves me feeling as if these strangers just crept into my psyche, moved in lock, stock and barrel without permission or invitation, and went to work on me like a bunch of vultures. Who said they could keep all these things or that I wouldn't some day want them back?

Something's stirring deep within, an unrest rippling through my system. Or through me? Them or me? Me or them?

What lies beneath is anything but a mirror image of the singsong life I try so painstakingly to portray to those in my 3D world. It is painstaking, it's exhausting and unfulfilling and there is no one to pat me on the back, or say nice job, or to even acknowledge that I do everything within my power every day of my life to hold myself together so there isn't some ugly explosion.

What lies beneath is what I need to explore.  Because it is ugly and as raw as any old, festering wound that has never healed I need to do some deep sea diving. These are my depths, they belong to me.

Ultimately they belong to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday
May262014

Where I Live

For as long as I can remember I've felt like the odd man out when I'm around other adults. I've chalked it up to poor social skills, never looking beneath the surface for any other explanation to the feeling that overtakes me when I'm interacting with others.

This is a feeling of being off somehow, of saying the wrong things or saying them a bit too late so that the timing is all off. Sometimes there's an emptiness inside of me as I struggle to be around others, a deep aching void which causes me to keep at a safe emotional distance. So others won't suspect my emptiness? Perhaps.

Wouldn't you think it's obvious that I feel "off" because of my disorder? I'm embarrassed by how long it's taken this to occur to me. Of course I'm going to feel like I have two left feet when it comes to socializing: look at who is speaking for me at any given time, in the form of my various alters. A sullen teen, several children in various stages of brokenness. An older woman who means well and is very sweet, but rather bungling at best. A pre verbal toddler with no name. You get the picture. Even if they all pitched in at once to help me cope with my lack of social skills, it wouldn't do me much good.

I know I'm an adult, at least chronologically. Why then do I so often feel like a child around others? I can think of no other reason than my DID.

What was done to me as a child didn't simply make me a bit awkward, it necessitated the creation of many alternate parts for survival purposes. You'd think that with so many inside of me helping out I'd have no problem socializing, but there is help and then there is help--the kind a young child tries to give its parent which is not really helpful at all. We expect that in a child; their desire to please is not always equal to their skill level. As an adult I resent feeling so often like that eager to please child who means well but just makes a mess of things.

I don't want to make a mess of things. Feeling stupid on a regular basis is demoralizing and exhausting. Sometimes, just once in a blue moon, sometimes I can see why some multiples choose to integrate.

I know I've been married, raised children and am now the nana of 8, but I wonder if in the truest sense of the word I've ever truly been an adult? Once my childhood abuse began was I ever really a child again? Seems to me I've been robbed of both my childhood and adulthood. So where do I exist then? I suppose in some kind of in-between place with no name, somehow fitting to the confusion I live with every day.

 

Monday
Feb032014

At a Dead-end

I want life to be safe, but it's not.

I want to not have to constantly sift through emotions that surface and seem disconnected to me, in an attempt to figure out who is upset, who is sad, and why I'm feeling so many different things at once.

What I want is to live one life, not 13 or more consecutively. With DID I don't have that luxury or option.

People give me strange looks, tells me I seem angry when I know I'm not. They question the sincerity of my "yes" when a favor is asked of me because my facial expression, or tone of voice, doesn't match my words.

As I said, I want life to be safe. I want to mind my own business, take responsibility for my(selves), and enjoy the little bit of comfort I've managed to find in this cold, often dark, world.

This week has been one disaster after another, requiring more of me than I would normally have to deal with in a month, culminating in a son's grand mal seizure in my kitchen. Today, for the first time, I called in sick from my babysitting duties because I didn't get home from the hospital last night until nearly midnight. I'm not sure how I even managed to drive home. It says something about the depth of my exhaustion that I, who can't take naps, slept much of today away.

I want safe, I want comfort, I want normality.

What happens within my system when faced with the kind of situation I just described? Do all of my parts interact with my son, or just some of them? I don't even know. I don't know who might have a relationship with him much less how things like this affect them.

What I want is what I can't have, at least not on a consistent basis. Troubles come to all, not just those of us who are many, I know that. I'm not the only one who struggles and struggles mightily, but there is no solace in this realization.

As for comfort, well, I've lost the ability to find comfort in those things which used to soothe me. The problem is, I just can't care anymore. I don't know why and I don't know how to start caring again, but it's not there. Everything seems hollow, and beside the point. I used to be able to look about my room and take pleasure in the mere sight of my stacks of books, a basket full of knitting, my vintage marbles and Barbie, etc. Now, nothing pleases. Nothing.

I wonder if I've finally reached an emotional and mental dead-end from which there is no escape. I've always managed, eventually, to find a sense of optimism again no matter what I'm confronted with. Even after my son's motorcycle accident 6 years ago I managed to reach a place where life once more seemed doable.

I want life to be safe, as safe as I like to think it was for the first 7 years of my life. But the truth, I suspect, is that even those years were not as safe as I like to remember them. Being human means living with the reality of just how precarious life can be. There are no guarantees. I hate that this is so even while conceding that it is so.

I'm backed into a corner of sorts and I'm not sure where to go from here. I've run into many cul-de-sacs along my life's journey, but this is a definite dead-end.