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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)



Can the reality of my life and character--warts and all--be used for good in someone's life? I ponder this often, running it through my mind from every angle.

I've had a strong sense of duty since childhood which could account for these kinds of thoughts. But aside from that, as someone who is slowly (sometimes achingly slowly) recovering from the brutality and trauma of abuse, I yearn to use my experiences for a good purpose. I want to heal for myself, sure, but what of those whose paths I cross (either in person or via this blog) who need what I can share?

Was it John Donne who wrote "every man's death diminishes me?" To put a slight twist on it, the abuse of every child diminishes me. Diminishes everyone, truth be told. I'm not overlooking the fact that sexual abuse is itself a type of death. Death to the spirit, death to emotional development, death to the ability to experience intimacy, and death to hope.

I'm thinking of my DID and just how it could benefit someone else. My mind draws a blank. I feel all in pieces; how is that helpful? How can my life nourish or benefit someone else if every day is such a strain to survive? What am I doing, anyway, but spinning my wheels and dreaming the kinds of dreams I'll probably never attain to because of my brokenness?

And then I wonder, is brokenness so bad? Is it so shameful to be broken that I must continue hiding it from everyone? Oh and I'm so tired of plastering over the cracks of my soul and mind with false smiles and the acting out of what I think passes for normal behavior. I want to be me, whoever that is. The one I present to the world isn't me, she's a stand-in. She's not even another me, an alternate personality. She's a strange concoction my system and I have created, like some kind of creepy paper mache' doll. We all take turns speaking through her, but she's lifeless. She doesn't cry or itch or bleed, or feel anything.

I'm not humble enough, is what I conclude. If I were more humble I wouldn't care if my brokenness were on display. I wouldn't have an interest in what others think of me. I'm trying to hold it all together and pretend that I am whole, and not only is that absurd it's insanity. I'm not even sure if I'm fooling anyone.

And what of my brokenness? Should I try to bounce back from it? Or can I simply accept that this is who I am in the same manner that a recovering alcoholic must accept the fact that she will always be an alcoholic, whether or not she ever takes another drink? What's so wrong with who I am, is the point I'm trying to make.

Maybe I'm the only one who can answer that. What's so wrong with who I am? It's that it puts me out of sync with most of society. It gives me an outlook I can't begin to share with anyone who isn't broken in similar manner. It causes me great self-consciousness. Everything I say and do carries so much significance, in my own mind, because I'm aware of how off I am.

So what of my brokenness, then. I don't know, I think I'm stuck with it. I think it's not something I can decide to simply shuck off. I can do what advances my healing, all the while aware that it is slow going at best. And in the meantime? In the meantime I need courage to continue facing myself in the mirror each day.

That's about it. I can do no more and don't dare do any less.






The Truth

A comment made recently by a fellow multi got me to pondering the ways in which I present myself on this blog, and to those in my home life.

She lamented having nothing worthwhile to contribute on fellow DID blogs, as well as not having much to write on her own blog. She feels (or felt then, at any rate) that others are doing good therapy work, and experiencing growth and healing which is evading her. (I may not have this verbatim, but I'll let it stand as is, considering that this is an issue I feel many of us contend with.)

One thing I've noticed about my writing on this blog is that, almost without exception, no matter how  much of a Debbie Downer I start out as, somehow by the time I reach the last paragraph or couple of lines, I've managed to flip things around so that a positive is being emphasized. Do I do this on purpose? I don't think so, at least not so I'm aware of it myself.

When I have my darkest days I tend to downplay them in this manner, though it is never my intention to give false impressions about the weariness (and worse) of living as a multiple.

Has this been a coping method I've utilized in all areas of my life, I can't help but wonder. Flinch at the shadows, bewail the dark misery--and then turn toward the only ray of light on my horizon? It could be. It could be I've had to do this in order to survive, and if so I've been doing it since I was a kid. I mentioned before being surprised at how happy I appeared in the old home movies. I assumed I was watching an alter at work, and of course that could be the case. I don't know if I had created any parts when these movies were taken. But one thing's for sure, what I experienced, what I felt every day for the rest of my childhood doesn't come close to matching that happy, skipping little girl on film.

I don't want to minimize anything I suffer, because to do so seems traitorous to that little girl, and to my siblings who were also traumatized. At the same time, I don't want to wallow. I don't want sympathy but I do yearn for empathy. Sympathy weakens me, empathy is like an energy drink for my spirit.

Does it help others to delineate every nightmare, every trigger, every doubt and fear? I suppose it depends on the reader. Some may need the details so they can be assured they're not alone in their intense sufferings. That they're not being melodramatic in their reactions.

Some may cringe at the meticulous spelling out of horrors no child should ever suffer. We're all so different in our needs, and not just that but from one day to another, or one moment to another, our needs differ. Maybe I'm coming to some kind of an understanding here. What I write about on any given day is sure to help someone, if it is true. There is power in truth and, now that I'm an adult and no longer at the mercy of my childhood abusers, it is my right and privilege and honor to name the unspeakable. Why? Ah, because I can!

Did you hear that? I can! Tell me there isn't healing power in that! As a child I may as well have had my vocal chords slashed, as little truth as I was able to tell. Not so now. I can speak all I want of these matters, carelessly spilling the beans, leaving a trail behind me. I can write it and speak it and use humor and short stories, and someday my memoir, to dispel the evil spell that rendered me not just tongue-tied, but dumb.

And what of those in my home life? Should I not be so quick to hide how things affect me, for fear they might think I'm just weird? I'm sure that if I hold back with my writing and try to accent the positive, I do the same at home. And just as obliviously. Hmm, I think I'll decide, yes deliberately decide, that that's ok. It's my angst, my memories and triggers: my DID. I can deal with it in which ever way is most comfortable to me. Maybe at times I'll proclaim the truth, as bravely as I sometimes do in my writings; at other times I will deem it more prudent to keep things to myself. There isn't any right or wrong way to do this!

Now, see, here I go again, and I swear I didn't plan to end on a happy note. But here I am anyway, about to say: oh the deliciousness of giving myself permission to not always censor myself, either here or verbally.

How sweet to see it's my choice what to share, what to omit, what to carry with me to my grave. I can do this any old way I want, and there is no one who has the right or power to tell me I'd better start  getting in line and goose-stepping.

Uh-uh. Not any more.

To my friend who bewailed her lack of anything of substance to share, I would say: that statement alone is helping someone. It's helping someone who is also struggling with the sinking sensation that they have nothing worthwhile to express. It's helping because it's true.

Whether we rant and rave, curse the darkness, thank God for the gift of DID, or poke fun at our selves, someone somewhere is reading our words, or watching our lives, and getting something tangible and nourishing to take along with them on their own unique journey.

What we say--what any of us say at any time, under any circumstances--matters because we, as the individuals we are, matter.



Living in Increments

Too many of my insiders are in hiding. There is a term to describe people who regularly read a blog, but rarely comment: lurkers. That's what I have inside of me, lurkers. They seldom contribute anything to my DID system, they are loners who trust no one, not even other members of the system.

I'm aware of this most, I think, when attempting to write about anything DID related. There are gaps in my writing, and sentences begun and then left hanging so that I must fill in the rest as best I can. As a result, much of what I write is contradictory, vague and/or stagnant. I can see it after the fact, but not when I'm trying to fill in the blanks, and not for months afterwards. I might stumble across an old post whose title intrigues me (and which I most likely don't remember having written) only to discover that what I'm reading is disjointed at best.

This is how I blog, in fits and starts. And why not? It's much like how I live my life. There isn't much flow to my days, though possibly it might appear different to those around me. From what I experience on the inside things are jerky, for lack of a better word. I am always being scolded in some fashion from the inside (oh yes, along with the lurkers we have scolders!) I'm not doing something right; maybe I'm holding my face wrong, and if someone walks into the room and sees my expression they'll take it as anger, though I don't feel angry. So I try to smooth out my expression which results all too often in one of my family members giving me a funny look. I didn't know I looked angry to begin with, so my efforts at correcting that impression are sure to fall short of success. Now I've just given someone an off look, which immediately triggers my paranoia.

And so goes my day, every day. I am scolded for my expressions, my tone and volume of voice (like the 3 Bears it is always too hard or too soft, never just right.)

I am teary-eyed for no reason, which earns me another round of scolding which results in being more teary-eyed. But that's okay because no doubt I'll be laughing hysterically the next moment (again drawing odd or concerned looks from my family.)

I live my life jerkily, as if it's a little red wagon tugged down the street by a grimy-faced waif who makes sudden stops to observe sidewalk cracks or potato bugs, then--curiosity satisfied--gives the handle a sharp tug, causing the motley crew inside (who I picture as my system of alters) to bump into one another like knuckleheads. Only I'm not really the one tugging the wagon, or maybe I am. I think I've just confused myself.

I never used to notice that I live my life in increments. A moment or two here and then something sharply veers into a whole different direction I didn't see coming. I can't absorb anything as a whole; I must study bits and pieces and nooks and crannies as if they are the end all of my existence. I don't think I ever see an entire room as a whole, much as I'd like to. I see a lamp, engrossed with its vintage shade I so love. This reminds me of the curtains I had in my other home, but no longer use, given to me by Sissyface. Which in turns causes me to think of the table she gave me at the same time. I glance at it now and notice some aspect of it which I hadn't really seen before, perhaps the gentle curves of its legs.

I'm the same with people. I know I am, though that too can't be helped. I see them from a distance, and it's the lopsided grin or cowlick or the way they stand that catches my attention. Life is too overwhelming to be taken it all at once; I shy away from total familiarity with inanimate objects and people.

When I think of integration (which I try not to do all that often, for it bewilders me), I can't help wondering if the jerkiness would dissipate if there were just one me. Is it the DID then that causes my incremental living, or my PTSD?

Too many of my insiders are in hiding, is how I started out this post. You see how it's veered away from that theme into something entirely different. And so it goes. I catch a thought that surfaces only long enough to wonder what I mean by that thought, and where it could possibly lead if I had it within my ability to follow it through to a conclusion.




Random Thoughts

I've long admired abuse survivors who tell their story to the world without hiding behind pseudonyms. Especially those whose abusive childhoods turned them into multiples. Limping along through life in the aftermath of childhood trauma is hard enough; living with DID on top of all the memories and repercussions of abuse compounds everything. Multiplies everything.

The time is coming, or so I sense, when I will join the rank of those who dare to write and speak truth publicly, using their true names. I've noticed that over time I've become careless on my blog about using my real first name. I began with the name Beautiful Dreamer, which was shortened to Beauty, but over time I let slip my birth name. I also have links on this site to other places in cyberspace where my writings can be found. I've lost track of who might visit these other sites that I wouldn't want knowing about my DID. I find trying to keep these "worlds" separate totally confusing, and anxiety producing. What if this relative who doesn't know about my DID visits the site on which I publish poetry on that subject? What if . . . aw, you know what? The hell with it. Really.

I want to be able to tweet about a new blog post, or post something about it on Facebook. I didn't cause my multiplicity, why should I have to hide it?

These are random thoughts as my granddaughter naps and I'm too pooped to do much of anything until it's time to pick up her sister and cousin from school. Random thoughts don't always lead somewhere definite. Too often they come to nothing, dissipating like morning dew when the sun rises. Maybe I won't ever feel comfortable going public with everything. I could be kidding myself. I can see though that the longing to do so is there, at least.

I desire this whether or not it ever happens.






Oh No He Didn't!

A few months (or so) ago I watched Dr. Phil's interview of a woman with DID. I couldn't help but notice or, more accurately, be dismayed by, his obvious lack of interest in the subject matter. I even made a comment on this blog, I was so aghast by his lackluster attitude.

I just finished watching a new Dr. Phil episode that I'd recorded earlier today. One of his guests was a woman with 22 personalities. I couldn't believe it when Dr. Phil said straight out that during his 30 plus years in his field he'd never run across an authentic case of DID. He then went on to comment that multiplicity is still a controversial diagnosis in the medical profession. It doesn't take much to figure out on which side of the controversy he stands.

This certainly explains his earlier DID episode; watching it, I kept thinking how he couldn't be less engaged in the topic, and his guest, if he abruptly strode off the stage.

My first gut reaction to this episode? "Yay! Dr. Phil doesn't believe in multiplicity so I don't have DID after all!"

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