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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 multiplicity (15)

Sunday
Mar292015

What a Day For a Daydream

Something happened recently which forced me to ponder how others see me. Isn't it strange when you're so sure you come off as being one way, then something is said which makes it clear that isn't how others see you at all?

Without going into all the details I'll just say that my dreamer personality was mentioned in a less than flattering way. I'd never given much thought to how this personality comes across. I'm not usually even aware when she's front and center. (I just flashed on how often my abuser, the stepdad, used to bellow, "Front and center!" when he wanted me to come change the channel on the TV, refill his iced tea, or any number of various menial chores. I wonder if my dreamer self took over at times like that? Did I feel anger or impatience at being so abruptly and rudely summoned from the sanctuary of my bedroom? If not, it's probably because my dreamy alter took over for me. After all, we kids weren't allowed to display any negative emotions.)

I'm not apologetic about this alter, is what I've come to realize. When disparaging remarks were made about her they took me off guard. I hadn't even considered what others on the outside think of this part, but now I had good reason to. What I've concluded is this. If a person is of a totally different temperament they will most likely not have much use for my dreamer self. They will probably be impatient with her dreaminess. That's okay, I don't see that as being my issue at all. There's a reason that this personality is part of my inner DID system. I can't really apologize for her existence when she made it possible for me to survive unimaginable horrors.

For the majority of my life I've crumbled or cowered under the criticism of others. What others thought of me mattered way too much--as I see now--because I had no real sense of who I was apart from my interactions with others. For one of the few times in my life, I'm rejecting criticism. The person who gave it is entitled to her opinion, but that's all it is: an opinion. I am not less, my dreamer self is not less, because someone doesn't much like her.

I stood my ground. In the aftermath of doing so I find that I feel freer and empowered. I don't recall the last time I felt this good. It's wonderful and delicious to own who I am, regardless of who does or doesn't approve of or like me. I'm not less valuable as a human being if someone decides they don't like me. I like me. With all my flaws, weaknesses and stumblings I like this person I'm becoming, this person who is made up of many.

I don't always exist in a dream state; I could hardly have raised 5 kids single handedly or accomplished half of what I've done in life if that were case. But there are going to be times when my dreamer will be in the forefront, making it possible for me to keep on keeping on. That's okay. That's more than okay. I see it as a good thing that I haven't lost the ability to dream.

 

 

 

Thursday
Nov072013

We Never Get Over It

One of my sons shared with me a conversation he had with a neighbor, who told him her son is in prison. She said he belongs there, even though he didn't really hurt anyone. Then she continued to say that he and 3 of his friends got drunk one night, and they all molested an 8 year old girl.

"She didn't get hurt, but she'll never get over it," is how the woman phrased it.

"Why won't she get over it if she didn't get hurt?" I said, with great indignation.

My son was pretty hot under the collar about it (he has a 10 year old daughter). He kept going on about how that's something that stays with you the rest of your life, etc. I decided not to get sarcastic when I said, "I know."

I've been mulling this over throughout the day. Never get over it?

This is how it goes for me.

I walk into the bathroom and close the door, and immediately I feel like I can't breathe. I was molested many, many times in bathrooms.

I see the color yellow and my brain grows fuzzy. The brand new house we moved into when I was 9 was bright yellow. And so was the bedroom in which I was molested and raped more times than I could count.

An oldie but goldie comes on the radio, and I have to pull my car over because I can't see through my tears. I listened to that song after another rape, after walking on wobbly legs with warm sperm running down my thighs,  back to the tenuous comfort of my own room.

As my bedtime approaches, anger deepens. I don't want to go to bed. Bed is where I was awakened to my abuser bending over me. Doing things no one needs me to describe.

I awaken in the morning with fury my first emotion of the day. I don't remember, but I just bet I experienced that same fury as a kid when I awakened to yet another burdensome day to somehow be gotten through, and my mother no help at all.

I watch an old sitcom I used to enjoy with my father, and have to change the channel. The enjoyment of certain shows was forever ruined by the devastation of being torn from him when I was 7.

For days, perhaps even weeks, I put up with pain or some medical condition because it takes me that long to a) acknowledge I really am miserable, and b) that it's okay to do something about it. I wasn't allowed as a redheaded stepchild to have needs and human feelings.

For decades I went through a number of relationships with men, many of them abusive, because I didn't know I deserved better. I didn't tell anyone in my life about the abuse. When my mother found her hubby molesting me, nothing changed.

Someone says something genuinely kind to me and I want to crumple myself up into a ball and die. When I lost my dad, he took all kindness with him.

I awaken in the middle of the night sometimes to my entire body thrumming, as if it's experiencing a sort of earthquake.  When my stepfather abused me my body trembled with fear.

A friend gifts me unexpectedly with cash and, as much as I need it, it feels as if the entire bottom has just dropped out of my world. My mother stayed with my abuser because he brought home a healthy, steady paycheck.

Someone comes up behind me unexpectedly and I jump and scream. My stepdad was forever accosting me around corners, appearing seemingly out of nowhere just when I thought I was safe from his grasping hands.

I sit down to write my story--MY story--and instantly doubts set in. My stepfather used to mock my writing attempts with his acidic remarks, insinuating that writing was a stupid thing to do, and that I was too stupid to attempt doing so anyway.

I see the look on someone's face when what I say or do something idiotic. I've just dissociated, for in the process of being destroyed by sexual abuse, my mind fractured into many parts in order to survive the unthinkable.

And so it goes.

We don't get over it. That's something we (my DID system and I, as well as our fellow survivors) don't get. We don't get to know life in what would be considered a "normal" manner. We're too busy surviving, for one thing.

Many mornings I awaken wrestling with thoughts of suicide. Today? Can it possibly wait? I am so very tired. Maybe I wouldn't even be alive to write this if it wasn't for the fact of my Chronic Fatigue.

That poor little girl. All the poor little boys and girls of the world who never get over it.

Poor them. Poor me. Poor us . . .

Wednesday
Jun192013

To Tell the Truth

What would it mean to come clean, to the world at large, about one's DID? I've been thinking about this ever since I posted a rather snide remark about announcing my multiplicity on Facebook.

I've no intention of doing that, but the thought of being my self all the time rather than with a select few who are "in the know" excites me. I think of the courage it takes for one to come out of the closet of homosexuality, transgenderism, or to appear on Dr. Phil, for instance, and spill the beans about shame inducing secrets: adultery, issues with rage, gambling and porn addictions. Eating disorders, drug abuse, voyerism. Is there relief in telling one's truth?

I waffle between wanting everyone to know, to lay down this burden of secrecy, to wanting to retain my privacy. The fact is, some--perhaps many--would not get it. They would not want to know about the many selves I harbor. Whether they know me personally or not they would rather not have to think too seriously about the reality of this particular disorder.

Some would get it, or if not exactly get it they would at least be open-minded enough to want to educate themselves about DID. They wouldn't dismiss it out of hand.

I've watched several documentaries about multiples, and always I come away from these with great admiration for those willing to expose their disorder to public scrutiny. How self-sacrificing, I always think, for one to be willing to have one's fragmented life documented to increase public awareness of DID. When I try to imagine doing this myself, well I come up with a blank. And not a little anxiety. What would it feel like to put something like that out there, knowing that you've spilled the beans to one and all?

I consider how violated I felt when a couple of people in my life blabbed about my DID to others. The difference of course is that I hadn't chosen to share my truth with certain individuals: that right and choice had been stolen from me. But would it feel the same if I made that call? Or would it seem as if I'd betrayed my selves?

The first word that comes to mind when I think about my childhood is secrets. Tip-toeing around trying to act all normal so no one would guess what I went through on a regular basis. And then, well and then after that childhood there was more tip-toeing around, pretending, so that no one would guess the depth of my brokenness.

Seems like survivors of childhood abuse have an awful lot of prentense in their lives. They must daily erase themselves, their truest selves, in order to live with some semblance of normality in a society that hasn't much use for those handicapped by mental disorders.

I've a hunch I'll forever be fighting this inward battle of wanting to tell, of not wanting to tell. Of feeling the need to be known for who I am versus the desire to guard the secret of my DID because it's mine, and no one else's business. Very likely I'll live out my days without coming to any kind of a resolution about revealing this biggest secret of all. At times I'll be ashamed of my timidity, at other times I'll pat myself on the back for allowing myself all the time in the world to come to a decision, or even not ever come to a decision. Which is a decision all by itself, isn't it?

The confusion of how to handle the truth of my DID goes with the territory of living with multiple personalities. As much as I might wish that things were more cut and dried, life is seldom that neatly uncomplicated. Everyone has something they struggle with; DID is my particular daily struggle. I think it's good to contemplate the issue of telling, whether or not I ever decide to actually blurt out my truth. I have to be able to think about it in the privacy of my own mind.

To tell or not to tell, that is the question I'm in no particular hurry to answer. It's a big question, yes, but it will keep.

Friday
Apr192013

Down Into the Depths

This weekend was meant to be a getaway, a road trip with Sissyface and my son to visit his kids 4 hours away. Though I wasn't keen on such a long ride, I was yearning to get away from the sameness of my daily routine, and the many hats I wear in running this household.

It couldn't be done, as it turns out. They had to leave at 11 am; had I gone with them there would have been no one here to pick up the girls from school. No one to ready them for going to their mother's for the weekend, as their dad has to work late.

I've felt a weight of sadness all day. Truthfully, I've felt this weight for more than a day. But today the sadness seems to have sunk in further and dug in its roots. I'm not sure how much of it is due to the missed trip.

Somewhere along the way I've lost my sparkle. I know that Funnygal, my resident comedienne, is in hibernation. How desperately I need her! Without her I am dull, and life takes on the drab hues of something very like depression. I don't even know if I'm depressed, or simply so exhausted that every little thing has me on the verge of tears.

While going to pick up the girls from school I thought how, the moment they left with their mother, I'd like to burrow into my bed and have a good cry. My heart yearned for this like it sometimes yearns for a long ago love.

I'll never give myself permission to do this, of course. There are still plenty of others here who may, at any moment, need me for something. The fact that I don't want to answer their knock with swollen eyes says more about my insecurities and intense privacy than it does anything about them. It's that old "crying is shameful" mindset again rearing its unlovely head.

I sit here in bed reading old blog posts while Friends murmurs in the background; I find myself wishing they were really my friends. There's something a bit pathetic about needing to hear sitcom noises and voices so I don't feel quite so alone.

There is no one I really want to be with. There is no one. When I get like this it hits me painfully that no one and nothing outside of myself will make things better. I must go down into the depths as I have so many times before, and usually I never  know why this is so.

And so down into the depths I go, sinking deep into my subterranean selves. Slumming, an insider says with sarcasm. Isn't that what you mean, you're going slumming because no one in your 3D world is there for you right now?

Is this what I mean? Isn't it true, I wonder, that I blithely ignore my parts unless or until I reach a point where I'm so desperate for companionship that I'd rather hang with them than go through the evening alone? I don't know how it works for other multis, but my parts rarely intrude. They don't elbow each other out of the way, vying to be in front. Probably because I fail to nurture them it's all I can do to coax one of them to surface.

Down into the depths: slumming. Maybe, but probably not so much. I've a hunch that some of my richest living takes place deep beyond my placid surface. Deep within the many personalities who are there for me in ways I'm never there for them.

Trouble is, that's also where the ugliness of my raw pain lives. Seems I can't have one (rich living) without the other (exposure to pain I try never to see full on, for fear it will scar or blind me forever.)

Down into the depths I go, and when I'll emerge nobody knows.

Wednesday
Mar202013

I've Got a Secret

Secrets. Seems I've been harboring them most of my life, wadding them up and hiding them deep within as you'd do with any shameful thing not fit for human eyes.

As a child I carried around the secret shame of living with a monster and the double whammy of belonging to a mother who chose not to protect me. The weight of this secret was crushing; it was nearly a double self, tagging along with me everywhere, not giving me elbow room or any little corner of my life that was all my own.

I've been dogged by this double self for so long that I can go for long periods of time forgetting that this other exists. Morphing from the original ugly secret (and, in fact, created from that secret) is the shamefulness of having many personalities. Though I've told some in my world about my multiplicity, I've chosen to keep it to myself more often than not. Why, though? Why must I slink around in the stealth mode dodging the radars of those who are not mentally ill?

I admire anyone who is vocal and upfront about their mental illness, displaying it for all the world to see. I don't know how one reaches a point in life when they simply cry "uncle" and give up all pretense. None of us should have to present a false self to the world. At what point does the false self become more and more our truest self, having subsisted within for so long that there is hardly any demarcation between who we are and who we pretend to be?

Do I continue with my facades, I wonder, because in a sense it's expected of me? Surely those closest to me wouldn't want to be faced with who I really am, not on a regular basis. How painful, how irritating it would be for those who had to witness over and over again my brokenness. So I hide myself away in part to spare others. But that's not all of it. I need to spare myself. I need to be able to look in the mirror every day and not see in my face every last trace of pain and shame and weirdness. I need to be able to focus on more than my inner wounds. If I was open about everything, would I be able to live normally? Okay, so I'm not doing that anyway, but wouldn't it be more jarring to have everyone know my business and to have to wonder how much they thought about it? 

I'm sick of being a carrier of secrets but, truth be told, I'm not willing to bare them to the world. Some day, maybe. For now I continue doing what I've always done, sparing myself and others from the horror of what someone looks like and acts like in the aftermath of outrageous abuse. For now I'll continue pretending to most of the world that I'm a singleton. I don't know how to live any other way. I don't like that I have to fake so much of my life when the reason for my being this way isn't my fault to begin with.

Secrets: I've more than my share. What a relief it will be to some day lay this burden down where it belongs--at my feet.