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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 Grief process (2)


After Grief

A friend once told me, after I'd lost a twenty-something year friendship, that I definitely needed to grieve my loss. I needed to figure out what I missed most about that friendship and ask God to replace those things in my life.

This was nearly ten years ago, and in all this time I've barely allowed myself to miss this person, let alone grieve her loss. And then today I found an old email account I haven't accessed in about seven years, and found many, many emails I'd saved from people who are no longer in my life.

Once upon a time (ten years ago now) I began this blog. Within a year I had a little DID support system going made up of fellow multiples I'd met online. We visited one another's blogs, left comments, gave each other a bad time, made bad jokes, exchanged DID technical knowledge and, in general, supported one another. Someone was always having a bad time of it, we were all always having a bad time of it. But there were others who were going through the same fears and depressions, or who had gone through them in the past and knew just what to say to throw a bit of light our way.

Finding these emails gave me so many mixed emotions. I teared up immediately, stricken with the loss of the individuals who for years had been part of my life in cyberspace. I miss that keenly. There is now no one in my life (except for one individual who was married to a multiple) with whom I can discuss the confusing, convoluted life of a multiple. No one. I'm not sure what happened to everyone. Oh, I know what happened in some cases but with others there wasn't any breaking point or closure, they simply drifted off and disappeared as if I'd dreamed them up. Some, I found out later, had quit blogging and no one knew what became of them.

None of us can go backwards and mostly I think that's a good thing. But sometimes when I allow myself to feel some of my losses I wish that I could. I wish I had the anticipation every morning of booting up my computer with a mug of hot coffee in hand, and reading the latest comments on my blog or the latest posts from someone in my little circle. I miss the fun. I miss how quickly we all leapt to the defense of anyone who needed it, or rushed to provide some form of comfort to one who was raw and hurting. These are not things to take lightly, and I didn't. I don't.

I needed that sense of camaraderie and I still do, but now I don't know where to find it. Either the world of DID cyberspace has drastically changed or I've lost my knack for finding those kindred souls who once saw me through so many hard times. 

Yes, I do need to grieve. I have a lifetime of grieving to do but the thing no one ever tells me is what exactly am I to do once I've done with it?









Little Ol' Bread Baker Me

When it comes to feelings, I've this sense that mine aren't genuine until another person comes along and gives them a name. Is it grief I'm feeling? I'm so out of touch with my emotions that I must depend on others to tell me what I'm feeling. But more than that, I need permission to "name it and claim it." Oh intellectually I know this is ridiculous. Intellectually I know I have as much need and right to express myself as anyone else. Trouble is, anything beneath the level of my intellect is murky at best. Growing up with a dictator who changed the rules according to his whims, and who mocked us kids if we showed emotion really messed me up.

I'm making an effort (however feeble) to get the ball rolling. Yesterday I painted my first canvas. I was hardly halfway through when I decided I wanted to paint a set,  one for each stage of grief:  anger, denial, etc. I like the end result if only because of the gorgeous colors I chose:  indigo and deep violet mostly. Well, this is one way to clumsily attempt to express myself. Writing would be my usual outlet but you know what? I'm sick to death of writing the words for incest and depression and abuse and blah blah blah. How many different ways can I write it?

If I were an actress I'd act it all out. If I were a sculptor my hands would mold clay into exquisite forms which would be rough with heartache and fear, but all the more beautiful because of the raw pain they express. If I were a lion tamer I'd pretend the lion was my past, threatening to devour me. I would tame it into submission.  A mechanic? I'd take apart my pain right down to its last nut and bolt to see what was causing the malfunction. As a bookie I'd bet the odds were in my favor for recovery. If I were an accountant I'd add up 2+2 and always arrive at 4; there would be no surprises in the equation of my grief.

As it is, I'm none of these things. I'm a nana who most days doesn't feel old enough to even be a mother. What are my options for getting the pain out? I'll paint when and what I can, I'll write even though I'm weary of it. Perhaps I'll write a play to express my grief, that would be something new. I'll bake it, out of recipes calling for bittersweet chocolate. I'll pound out my anger as I knead bread dough, pretending the dough is my abuser's soft yeasty soul. Maybe a few tears will fall and I won't care if they get kneaded into the dough because they'll be honest tears, and pure. They will add their own unique flavor and people will ask in amazement where I got the recipe. They will beg me for it, but I'll just shake my head and make a helpless gesture with my hands. "I made it up as I went," I'll say. "I've no idea what extra ingredient I added. Sorry." And all around me people will be swooning with the sweetness of my bread that isn't really sweetness all by itself but sweetness diluted with brave endurance.

I think I've gotten a tad bit carried away here. Time to finish my coffe, and you know what? Suddenly I have a strong desire to make bread!