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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 Depression (12)


Things That DIDN'T Please Me Recently

Coming home to find the french doors to my dining room swarming with flying ants (on the inside) . . . having my internet service disrupted over a measly $35 . . . another anxious drive to ER on behalf of a loved one . . . discovering that my car isn't steering right, it sort of wants to slide when I turn corners . . . several nights in a row of not nearly enough sleep . . . getting hopelessly lost on the freeway (this is why I seldom drive them) . . . the sneaking hunch that my growing depression is going to consume me.


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.



There's No Place Like Home


I hesitate to write this post because I know how it's going to sound.

For the record, I'm not suicidal.

I'm simply homesick, homesick for the eternal home that awaits me. This world, aside from the ones I love, holds no attraction for me. I'm tired. Physically and in every possible way, I'm tired and flat out weary.

When I see on the news that another monster has stolen a child's innocence, I'm weary.

When I awaken with an argument inside my head with the mother I don't even have a relationship with, I'm weary.

Abuse and its aftermath will do this to you, it will make your very bones tired. While dealing with yet another loved one's addiction (for the hundredth time) I feel as if I can't take it one more day. I can't get my hopes up one more time that this person will break free from the bloodsucking leech of addiction, and live out the rest of his life with hope and stability. But I can't allow myself to go to the opposite extreme either of giving up, of shrugging my shoulders and telling myself, "There's nothing I can do about it. I might as well accept that he's going to lose his life to drugs."

"There's a land that is fairer than day, and by faith we can see it afar . . ."

Old-fashioned words from an old fashioned hymn. Some will think this hymn, and the faith of those who can sing it sincerely,  pathethically simple and out of touch with reality. I don't care. I've been longing for my eternal home since I was a child. I'm drawn to it, I long for it. I live in this world; I have a body which takes up space in it. Everything I do sets something in motion, like ripples in a pond. I breathe, I eat, I sleep, I move my body, I wash it, I take it with me everywhere I go.

What a responsibility it is to own a body!

Standing on my head against the living room wall while my family stares blank-faced at TV sitcoms, I see The King of the Mountain leering at my body. Were it not for the fact of my mother and siblings in the room with us, he would pounce on me. I know this vaguely and the knowing causes me to allow my body to fall into a heap on the floor where it is not so much on display. It is because of my body that he is able to do such despicable things to me, and yet I must carry around the burden of this body for the rest of my life.

Once upon a time I knew the luxury of giving my body little thought. It was nothing more than the vehicle through which I lived my life. If one's body can become such a burden, how much more of a burden is the self-consciousness that comes from having it gawked and leered at night and day. And more of a burden to have it preyed upon, crushed, contorted into awkward and sometimes painful angles by careless hands.

And so I'm tired, weary of this life through which I propel my aged body. Nobody leers at it anymore, so there's some compensation for having lived this long. I want....oh, I want so much more than what this world ever offered me.

I want to not feel the shame of my flesh.

I want to not hear of another child ravaged by unrestrained evil.

I want to not have every memory sullied.

I want to be free in a way that this world has never allowed.

Dorothy said it well in The Wizard of Oz: "There's no place like home."

She was right; and when I get to my eternal home I will, at long last, be free of earthly constraints and know the luxury of having my existence never again depend upon this earthly, traitorous body.








At 60 I find myself a bit of a roly-poly with short greying hair. The short is not on purpose, but the end result of having to pay more than I can afford to have the mistakes of one hair stylist mitigated by another, as much as possible. Having gotten over the shock of wearing my hair shorter than it's been in 30 years, I find that I'm beginning to like it.

My feet hurt all the time now, no doubt a result of the above mentioned roly-polyness. When I gaze at myself in the full length mirror I'm appalled, and then I chuckle. I can't help it. Who is this woman with the strident jawline and the short, mannish hair? Where did her waistline go? Oh my goodness, I look at myself and can't help but thinking I look like my own father as he was at this age, with a bad wig!

Outward appearances are the least of it. Abuse has taken its toll on me. As with most things, it's taken a long while (decades) for the brunt and the aftermath of it to manifest. I awaken sorrowful with tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. I blink them back as I climb out of bed, my heart aching every bit as much as my feet.

Something was done to me as a child, many things were done to me as a child. My mind can't quite grasp not only the horror of it, but the audacity it takes to destroy a child. How could they? I start to wonder and, But why? There is no real explanation or excuse for evil but I want one all the same. I want the specific evil of my childhood spelled out like the blurb on the back of a best seller. I want it solved, like a case in a cold case file that's been dead for decades. I want someone to hand me the answers and explanations, all tied up with a fancy bow. But I know this won't happen, not ever. What was done was done, and does it really matter as to the why of it?

Can I help? Do you want to spend time together?

No, the presence of another, no matter how well meaning, is too much of a burden right now.

Perhaps listening to music would soothe your sorrow?

Music hurts too much right now; I can't bear it.

Would you like to read a book?

Yes, I would. But I can't read right now for books are one more thing that I can't bear.

Is there something I can do: take you somewhere, find something fun for us to do together?

There is nowhere for me, there's barely a me. There is nothing I want to do, and fun is not in my vocabulary.

Here, let me lend you my empathy.

Thank you, but any kindness right now would be my undoing.

Life chafes at me, rubs me the wrong way no matter which way I turn or who I interact with. There are sorrows too all pervading for words, wounds too deep and old for healing. Let me be, is what I tell the imaginary kindly soul who would reach out to me if only I allowed it. Let me be; though it looks to you that I am wallowing in self-pity just let me be. I need the silences howling away inside to blow through me without interference. I earned them, they're mine. I need to feel them as I never have before: no side-stepping or sweeping under the rug.

I am a 60 year old child losing my virginity all over again. I am a nana who gets spooked by what may lie around every corner. I am the collective weight of all that was done to me in that suburban home that witnessed my shame.

I may be reborn. I may rise from the ashes of my childhood, my only inheritance, stronger than ever. Or I may whither away into nothing but a sad, roly-poly mess. My only truth right now is that this is where I am, who I am. There's nothing to ask of life, nothing to look forward to because nothing is what they made of me.




The Day the Music Died

I moved into my apartment the middle of July and it still doesn't feel like home to me. The motivation to fix it up into the cozy haven I usually yearn for hasn't kicked in.

I've been thinking of all the moves I've made over the years. After my son's nearly fatal motorcycle accident 6 years ago, well, something in me seems to have died, and I don't know how to bring it back to life or if I even want to.

When your child is hovering between life and death, your world shrinks. Suddenly the old comforts, the things you have to have like the latest novel by your favorite author, or your nightly routine of settling down with favorite TV shows, just doesn't matter. What use did I have for such things, what could it possibly matter if I missed the latest episode of a weekly show when I didn't know if my son would come out of his coma, or come out of it as more than a vegetable?

Something died while I waited for the outcome of that horrible wreck. Something died, and it hasn't been ressurected. And so I sit in my room and, yes, I still have shows I record and watch at leisure. I have familiar paintings on the walls, and little figurines that mean something to me, and stacks of books and my vintage Barbie--but I take little interest in them. I'm still back at that place of not caring about anything but that my son live, and not be paralyzed or a vegetable. He did live; he lived, and that's a wonderful thing. He's not paralyzed, he's not a veggie but neither is he the son he was before his accident. With 8 brain injuries, how could he be?

Maybe this is some kind of delayed reaction, maybe the depression brought on by that horrible time has moved in lock, stock and barrel, and refused to budge. The thing is, I don't think I care. I don't care if I'm depressed. I'm mildly curious as to why nothing much comforts or holds charm for me any more, but I'm not especially troubled that this should be so.

Something shifted deep within me 6 years ago; a shifting of my priorities, but that's not exactly it or not the whole of it. A definite change in my perspective, in how I absorb my surroundings has given to my life a vagueness. I've never felt so undefined as I do now. And what of Funnygal, my funny alter? Has she fled, never to return?

Yes, my world has shrunk and it's just as well I don't bother myself now with the longing for a more cozy home. Why did I ever care about such things? Is it so important that I surround myself with beauty, that I go beyond providing myself with a roof over my head to making my apartment into a home with warmth and color?

That's it, I guess. I'm living a sort of bland life, bleached of all color. I know that this goes beyond my son's accident. He has adjusted to his "new normal" and his family has had to adjust with him. No, this lack of pleasure in the world may have been triggered by the accident but it's continued due to something else I can nearly name, but not quite. Not quite.