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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)

Tuesday
Jan282014

When Will I be Known?

I'm not sure what it means that lately whenever sorrow strikes me I feel the urge to write on my blog.

In the past I've explored my thoughts on forgiveness, most of them tentative at best. For years I've considered myself to be a pretty bad person for not forgiving my own mother. Well, I've wrestled with that for sure.

Yesterday something turned over in my mind; I saw this whole issue of forgiving her from a new perspective.

It's not, I'm beginning to see, even a matter of forgiveness. Not yet.

To get there, to get to that place where the prospect of forgiving her is even possible I would first need to climb up out of the pit into which she threw me, as surely as the OT Joseph (of the coat of many colors) was thrown into a pit by his jealous brothers.

It isn't unforgiveness holding me back, it's sorrow. Sorrow as deep as any pit, sorrow as piercing as any wind and as keen as the mind of a pedophile.

Some will say that healing comes only after the act of forgiveness. This may be true sometimes, I don't know. I can't judge how others handle this. But for me there is a rightness, suddenly, in thinking that I need to heal before forgiveness is something my mind can even begin to consider.

I've put the cart before the horse, as usual, driving myself to do something that I--well, not that I refused to do, but--couldn't do. I've simply been incapable of forgiving my mother.

I am not the 60 year old nana of 7 who is writing these words. In a very real sense I'm what was dumped into that pit decades ago. I am the open wound who goes by the name of "Beauty," and "Mom," and "Nana." Who are they talking to, really?

I'm going through a puzzling phase where I am suddenly ultra-aware of how no one in my life really knows me, or sees me for who I am. Well, how could they? When I've been so confused by my DID and the childhood which created my system, how on earth could I expect my friends and family to truly know me? My unknowingness adds to my sorrow, for this is surely another consequence of having been broken.

By breaking me, my stepdad and mother erased me and made of me something unknowable. Don't we all, at least during certain times in our lives, long to be known, to have someone pierce through our outer shell and see us in all our fragility and (to ourselves at least) hideousness?

The people who share my life aren't hardhearted, then. They don't refuse to know me: they think they already do!

Circling back to the subject of forgiveness, I can honestly say that I want to want to forgive my mother. But that's not even on the table right now. I am a hurt, terrified, wounded 7 year old and this pit is cold and when will someone rescue me?

 

 

Tuesday
Jan142014

Here in This House of Pain

While reading a new (to me) blog about--what else--DID, something triggered memories of that bittersweet 60's suburb into which I was thrust, or transplanted, as a 9 year old.

I wanted to love my new home and neighborhood, I longed to revel in having come up in the world, which really meant, as poor as we'd been under my father's negligible provision, that what we didn't have was no longer a primary topic of conversation.

We had plenty now. Plenty of food, plenty of room to move about our spacious home, a generous backyard and oh, yes, plenty of money to cover all the bills.

As I started to say, I wanted to love this new, updated version of my life. There were moments when, fickle to myself, cheating on myself so to speak, I turned traitor and allowed myself to be grateful our living room wall to wall was such a pretty color, and that my mother, now that she had extra spending money with which to decorate as she pleased, turned out to have an excellent eye for line and color. Our home was just so. There were no scuffed surfaces, warped cupboard doors or linoleum so threadbare that you couldn't even tell if there was supposed to be some kind of pattern.

And the order pleased me, secretly. A little bit I allowed myself to come off my high horse long enough to begrudgingly admit (to myself) that it wasn't so bad having our first sliding glass door which led to our first ever patio, which in turn led to our first fenced-in yard.

Was I being a little Judas Iscariot to my father if the way the sun streamed through my bedroom window mid-morning pleased me? The fact that I loved how the varnished hardwood floor of my room felt against my bare feet may not have meant I had the blackest of all hearts, full of greed and treachery, but it sure felt so.

I spent years doing this awkward dance of allowing our home and its environs, and its creature comforts, to court me, only to pull away suddenly into some private place deep within where I lived within another house of sorts: the house of pain containing the shrine constructed to not ever forget my beloved father, and two brothers.

My house of pain asked nothing of me. It was a retreat when I needed retreating, as often I did. Because it asked nothing of me except, perhaps, that I see and feel and remember, it felt safe.

I saw within its recesses that surfaces could not be trusted. The homes I'd lived in with my mother and father (before he became an outcast) were one rental home after another where nothing matched, floors sloped, walls were crooked and something was always breaking down. Yet love shone its best self all around those drafty rooms, turning them into a place where I too shone best. And now here, here in suburbia where some things of a purely surface nature pleased me, well here the only things that shined were the spiffy new appliances. As tucked in neat and warm as we were each night, far from the mean streets of poverty with all its resultant cares, we--adults and children alike--withered, our spirits growing listless with the kind of spiritual rot that happens when things do all the shining.

The necessity for doing my clumsy little dance toward the spiffy and modern, before plunging back down into my house of pain, was one more burden I learned to carry silently throughout my days and nights, season after season. I didn't know, as I do now, that the house of pain was really a home for my alters. I hadn't met them yet; I thought I was alone in trying to keep some kind of balance between the new and the old, the loved and the merely tolerated. Oh my heart, how I secretly grieved and moaned in that old house, how I lamented and keened and wailed until the time came, and it wasn't long in coming, when the emotion seemed to have died right out of me, just poof! and it was gone. Gone? Dispersed among many, maybe. But gone to me, never to be mine again, never again to be the keeper of my own sorrow and shame and cutting loneliness.

And now I am old, or so the world would have me believe, and though the house of pain has been renovated once or twice, it is still a den of darkness and of all things we don't mention in polite society. And I am wondering whose sorrow, whose shame, whose rage do I keep putting on like an old garment, only to find it doesn't fit before I throw it from me as if it's a writhing snake?

 

 

Monday
Jan132014

This is the Question

I wonder sometimes about integration. It's not something I'm drawn to, in fact I've felt very strongly opposed to it ever since I knew there was such a thing. But lately, well lately I feel so much more scattered than usual.

I don't know how to describe it other than to say that I seem to be receiving too many radio stations at once. I can't hardly finish one complete thought. This leads to going off in many directions mentally, which brings with it so many moods or emotions that there is no time to process anything. I may have begun smiling to myself about something funny but before the smile is completed I'm blinking back tears, not knowing what they're about.

I suppose what bugs me most is that my focus is off. I can't give my all to any one thing, which makes for lots of uncompleted goals and projects.

Still, I don't like the idea of integration. I may be a lousy nurturer, but these are my parts and they're here for a reason. It doesn't seem right to ask them to meld into one. And what if the integration were a dismal failure? I mean what if it happened but then I regretted it? Is it somewhat like a suicide that can't be repented of? How would I come back from that, if I realized I'd made a huge mistake, and just who would I be anyway?

I'm weary right now of DID issues. Everything hurts. Everything rubs me raw.

I don't have to decide anything about integration right this minute, and even if I did I would no doubt need the help of a therapist to guide me through it, and I haven't got one at the moment. Here I go again, borrowing trouble from the future, trying to peek around corners I haven't even arrived at yet. This is what I do, this is what hyper-vigilance drives me to do.

No wonder I'm so exhausted.

 

Monday
Oct212013

Lighting Candles

(Note: the following post was written in 2006, not long after discovering my many selves. I came upon it this morning at my old Beautiful Dreamer site, while searching for something else. I'd forgotten the DID issues my friend and I discussed back then. Not surprising! Anything of a DID nature has a tendency to dissipate from my consciousness rather quickly. I decided to repost this for my own reference, and also on the off chance that someone reading it may benefit from my friend's suggestions.)

 

This evening I spoke with my friend Susan regarding my missing parts. Her ex-husband has DID so she’s a fount of information and good ideas. We did a bit of brainstorming, and I explained that I don’t have very good communication with my parts. She suggested I come up with some kind of message center where any of my parts may go when they need to communicate something with me, or one another. She added that it could be set up so that the messages are in some kind of code which only the one writing them and the one they’re intended for can read them. Another suggestion was that when my parts enter this area they can be invisible, that way they can slip in and out without being seen, thus ensuring their privacy.

I never know what she’s going to pull out of her hat. The truth is, I don’t question her much about DID. I figure after about 10 years of dealing with her hubby’s disorder, she must be sick to death of the whole subject. When she phoned tonight our conversation gravitated to my missing parts and, without warning, I was sharing with her the sorrows and woundings I believe drove them into hiding. (By the way, she encouraged me repeatedly to turn to her with any DID related questions/struggles I may have in the future. Oh boy, she may wish she never opened that can of worms!) Well, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of a message area—-sounded too professional or something. A little later she mentioned it could be something different, like a tree for instance. She said this with a laugh, but it got me to thinking, or a backyard fort!

I like this image a lot. Anything which reminds me of that old sanctuary of my childhood has my approval, for it was there hidden in the womb of my fort where so many pleasant times were spent. Time alone (alone?!) or with a friend, time away from my family’s insanity most of all. And so when Susan mentioned using a tree as a meeting place for my system, it wasn’t all that farfetched. You can nail a sign to it, she suggested, explaining that anyone is free to leave a message whenever they want.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seemed like many of my alters perked up their ears at the idea of their own fort. I’m at the point where I’m willing to try just about anything which seems feasible. I told Susan that whenever there’s emotional pain to deal with, I usually stay on auto-pilot and let my parts handle all the pain. They normally work so well together that this isn’t a problem. But now that doesn’t seem to be working, and my acknowledgement of this excited her. “That’s a really good sign of progress,” she said, “the fact that you can see how you normally process pain, and the fact that you know it is no longer working.”

Progress? Moi? Well, maybe so. I’m one of those old lumbering turtles who won’t win any prizes for speed—-but maybe for being slow and steady. I’m not always that steady maybe, but every now and then I get something I didn’t get before, and it gives me a smidgen of hope. A smidgen I didn’t have five minutes ago. Sometimes that’s all we have to cling to: smidgens, rays, crumbs and dribble-drabbles. And sometimes that little bit is just enough to keep the pilot light of our faith from going out. I didn’t have this smidgen of hope yesterday, I have it now. And I’m as content as can be with what I have.


Sunday
Sep012013

Full Circle

Back when I began blogging in 2006, when my blog was on Wordpress, I barely knew what a blog was, much less what to write about. My first post wasn't about much more than my intention to record on a regular basis what it's like living with Dissociative Identity Disorder.

I'd only recently been diagnosed with DID, and in trying to process this new revelation about myself I thought that writing down my thoughts might help me sort things out. Though I'd been living for decades with many personalities, I was a stranger to my own DID system. What did it mean to have this disorder? How did it affect my relationships and deepen and complicate my day to day struggles?

I've come full circle, in a way. Though I've gained many new insights into the workings of my system along the way, I'm still in the dark to some extent about my multiplicity. I find that I don't have any great words of wisdom to offer anyone who may be starting out on their own similar journey. Somewhere along the way I wrote Unmapped Miles, an expression of my own puzzled discoveries about my fractured mind. This was just the beginning of my quest for understanding. I wanted to know, I yearned to know just how the sexual abuse of my childhood had caused such fracturing of my mind. But I'm not much further along the learning process than I was 7 years ago.

I'm a little stuck right now; for weeks I've been dealing with a flood of sorrow and sadness, not knowing where it's coming from and if it truly belongs to me. Is it one of my parts in distress with whom this sorrow originates? Does it belong to all of my parts--does it even belong to me, the one who is in charge of this body and of interacting, most of the time, with the outside world?

Daily I toy with the idea of ending my blog, for it seems I'm spinning my wheels. Very rarely these days do I experience epiphanies about any of this. My thoughts are stale, my dreams are rubbed worn, and I've arrived, or so it seems, at a place where I can go no further. Is this it then? Am I to make no more progress in this quest to discover everything I can about my self: my childhood and its abuses most of all?

I'm turning 60 in 2 months. There is shame--though I'm aware there shouldn't be--at turning the big six-o and possessing little more self-understanding than I had when I began this journey into the unknown. I suppose what I thought initially was that I would embark on a journey with a definite destination. I would know when I had arrived and, once and for all I could lay down this heavy burden of confusion. Well, it seems I had it all wrong. I now believe there is no destination. You put one foot in front of the other, tentatively or with steady determination, and then the next one and the next one. You have set-backs; you relapse from your decision to be strong and deal with whatever comes up, no matter what it is because you want to know everything you can about what happened to you, and what you've turned into as a result.

I'm not bummed about turning 60. I'm bummed about turning 60 and not having gotten farther along than I have. For some reason I thought I'd have it more together by now. I thought my never-ending sorrow would by now be a thing of the past, at best a shadowed memory.

I don't know what to think about any of this. I'm disappointed in myself. I'm weary of talking and thinking about DID. That's it, really. I'm just weary of the whole thing.