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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 (43)


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.



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?




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?




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.



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.