Why am I here?
I think, for most, that the goal is external; going to college, paper degrees, working, promotions, financial gains, and accolades.
My locus is internal; surviving, reexamining the neglect and infractions inflicted when I was completely helpless and total dependent on two hapless, hopelessly sick and twisted individuals, dealing with the repercussions of being shattered and relentlessly tortured.
Ouch, childhood leaves a mark no matter how it played out.
To you that had good growing ups, kudos. To you that got over a few rough patches, I commend thee. To those, like me, who are walking wounded and constantly applying fresh bandaids to festering wounds, I applaud you.
We each come into this life with a task, a goal or objective. I know mine, now. It isn't pretty but neither is it embarrassing or to be feared.
My job is to heal using all the tools I can find; therapy, dreamwork, acupuncture, energy work, writing and arting.
My job is to live everyday knowing and feeling beaten and tortured without becoming a bitter, angry soul seeking vengeance.
Most of my work is internal. Then there is blogging, writing and, maybe someday, speaking out in public about the horrid things some people do to children and how to heal from it.
Find out what your life task is...then do it.
I get it.
My life isn't a bad thing...it's just my life.
People with Aspergers generally are high functioning in everyday life but have great difficulty connecting with others due to the inability to read faces, body language and subtle verbal clues. They also tend to take words literally and have a hard time multi-tasking.
Oversensitivity to touch (clothing has to be soft and often the tags removed), light (do not leave home without the sunglasses), sound (loud noises and noisey places are avoided), taste (many Aspies have quite a limited diet and are frequently very picky eaters) and smells makes the everyday existence more of a challenge.
Fasten your seatbelts and come on in...
To find out more about what Aspergers is..please check out my earliest blog entries
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Why am I here?
Thus I write.
Up, out of bed, lest the memories engulf me. The past is a voracious beast when left unattended or properly cared for.
Realizing the magnitude of what I've lived through...and the hurts I care inside which seem to be leaking to the surface and are becoming more impossible to contain.
I think most people carry stuff inside, mostly parental approval or disapproval, like naked trees in spring. You know, childhood events, our parents hate, love or neglect...their not loving us enough, getting their approval, all the times they hit us calling it discipline, when in reality it hurt and humiliated, all that stuff dwells inside.
Emotions, those retched things we really don't want to deal, hmm, they exist whether we believe it or not.
A spanking was a hit of disapproval and bullying. Those kids that were hit, grew up to hit their kids thinking they lived through it, why shouldn't their kids?
People, parents like to express their pain, kinda to try and neutralize it, by doing it to their kids. In a sense, hitters are saying, "well, I lived through that humiliation and degradation and my parents were never wrong, so here kid, I'll wallop you and make my parents actions okay in my head."
You know, if your face is pushed against a wall it's a seriously narrow view.
Introspection is only for the brave and utilized by very few.
How do I feel? Lately, like I'm tied up, naked on a mattress waiting for the next....
Yeah, so it can summerize my early years but I'm not gonna hide it. I don't deceive myself by painting a pretty picture when all I had to work with was grey and black.
I no longer pretend to be without emotions. Sure, most of the ones I feel suck but I think, in working through my shit, that I will find some light and bright.
I've stopped lying to myself. I get where I am coming from. So, yeah, it's a putrid sewer but it ain't going to get any better unless I admit it's there.
People lie to themselves...and die never knowing who they are.
I don't want to be like them...I refuse to keep my eyes shut and drown in the black sea of repressed emotions and discarded truths.
I know so much about what happened to me...and yeah, it's keepin me up nights.
Monday, December 26, 2016
It was a busy day. I decided to clean the bathroom and kitchen. I had my son assist in the bathroom, as it was more his mess than mine. Plus, if he doesn't like mopping it up, maybe he'll have better aim. It really needed a thorough job and I was up for the task.
Cooking didn't work out quite as well, as I practically liquified my potatoes leaving little to mash. The turkey came out okay. That outer burnt stuff didn't seem to effect the taste. I'm not a big fan of the gobbler but Rosebud and my son relish it.
After all the cleaning, I had dirty rags that I couldn't have sitting anywhere around the house, so I had the laundry room all to myself and managed a couple of loads.
The football game was pretty exciting. I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the complex here. Very few cars in the lot.
I've been in the house too much. I'm pretty sure tomorrow is a road trip day. I don't have funds but I'll probably drive north or south and window shop at the thrift stores. Holiday break means no school and momma needs a ride. Time to see the sheep and the mountains.
I'm so grateful this holiday shit is over. Man, it just seemed so long, strung out and like it'd never get over with.
Please!!! And Thank you
I need to keep moving, even if it's just around the house. I've been stuck in my head too much lately. Time for some fresh air...and maybe a lollipop...hahaha, cabin fever madness trying to set in.
Sunday, December 25, 2016
I was grateful to receive a holiday food basket, in which I picked each and every item, from a local Christian church. In addition, I was gifted a gift card to the local supermarket.
Since I had enough food, I bought all those non-perishable items that I usually pay for out-of-pocket. You know, toilet paper, laundry soap, shampoo and one total luxury item, Discover magazine!
My brain was starving for intellectually stimulating science material. I hadn't the funds to purchase my own magazine since my arrival here. It seemed more a matter of mental health than a luxury.
I've been devouring each and every article. I love the big, sciency words and the lingo. My brain is happy!
Saturday, December 24, 2016
I'm done for the moment, for the holiday, with interaction both real and online. I keep waking up thinking the holiday is passed and I'm bummed to find out it is pending.
I'm just done with it all, alright. Yeah, my son will celebrate as I tolerate and retreat.
My mind as vacant as the parking lot. Don't want any more well wishers or photos of family happiness. Be gone. Phone off.
Five more days till therapy. Kitchen cleaned. Rearranging, dumping to make more room. Vacuuming and dusting feels good to do. Outdoors is pretty silence.
I miss my dreams at night. My nighttime meds eliminate my dreams, which is a sad side effect. I'm willing to go medless and somewhat sleepless as having no dreams for weeks makes me feel like something major is missing in my everyday life.
Things are going well. I just don't like holidays and am always ass-happy when they are over with and done.
I only get one hour of therapy a week via insurance. Man, that does not feel fair. So much to deal with, speak of and cover. Damn it. And contain, for days. Yeah, I'm busy, go away.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Unsettled feelings about finding this out. My dad trained me to do certain things, like a cocker spaniel, at 7 yrs old, and I was rewarded for my work with cake and coins.
Yeah, it really hasn't sunk in yet. I mean, I did remember the one instance with the guy at the aluminum and paper recycle place when I was 10. That was gross and grimy but this new stuff was earlier. I don't know how often it happened. Based on current data, it seemed like a commonplace occurance. I was well-trained and never even questioned what I was doing. My dad was truly a master manipulator and he started grooming me while quite young.
Honestly, it was normal, and icky for my dad to molest me. Just a normal every day event. If you experience something practically everyday, you tend to perceive it as normal, especially as a child.
Yeah, I'm still processing this latest piece of shit flashback/ memory.
How did I ever live through this much shit? I'm starting to see the scope of the abuses. The frequency and different type of infractions. The sheer volume is overwhelming. I get it. I survived. I split.
Trying to put the pieces back together, sorting out the intense emotions and depressing feelings, the physical symptoms and painful body memories.
I'm fucking amazing.
Pour me another drink, Maurice. It's going to be another long night.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
It feels like I'm sitting in a movie theater with my back against the screen and the movie is always playing, you know the one where the children are being tortured and beaten. Every now and then pieces of the film break off, get louder, nearer and float into my vision. I cover my ears, I close my eyes but the visions won't go away.
I just have to wait...for therapy, for a different, less violent piece of film to superimpose on top of the disturbing one.
Yeah, it's that good...at times.
So many times, violations, physical, sexual, emotional...the film Never sleeps and rarely (without medication) do I.
Welcome to my life.
It is what it is.
Part of the thing that is weird...I didn't cause this. All that was done to break my body and spirit was intentionally inflicted upon me against my will.
A history of heavy violations. A man who routinely raped his daughter. A mother who despised, shunned and beat me, too. A mother who looked the other way, pretending not to see what was before her very eyes.
Her child, broken, bleeding...and she turns and walks away thinking her dirty hands are clean. Falsely telling all who would hear, how magnificent it was to have so many children...her greatest pride, her joy...as she quietly shut the door and never acknowledged or spoke of it...till over 35 years later. For then she could admit she saw, she knew and she protected...all the other children...but me.
Thank you mother, I spit in her face.
I walk away.
It's just me....it's just me as it always has been.
No one really wants the truth...unless it's covered in froth and icing.
If the truth be ugly, do like my mother, turn away, pretend you can't hear or see, and walk out. I've been disbelieved long enough.
I was there.
It happened...and I wonder if I will ever be in one piece......
Monday, December 19, 2016
It's almost bedtime. I just noticed that I hadn't been making eye contact the entire day. Briefly, when CC and I were out and about, I tried making eye contact but I found it unnatural and just couldn't do it.
Maybe some days I do have more autism then others.
I can't explain it. I have no answers. I do believe it's been weeks since I've had a zero eye contact, ZEC, day.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
Saturday, December 17, 2016
It snows, typically, once or twice a winter, here in the Willamette Valley. It's usually only one or two inches and it melts within a day or two.
Here's a small snowman that I found in our parking lot. I brought Alice out for size comparison.
The next pic is from today's paper. I thought you might be amused.
My 13 year old was born with one hand. Today was another one of those days when I was using both hands simultaneously to shake paint bottles, felt a sudden wave of guilt wondering of my son was feeling sad as he watched me and I quickly put one bottle down and proceeded to use only one hand.
Why him? And not me, instead? It saddens me that his daily life will be difficult than most children. He asked me to cut his pizza and bagtie the French fries, two tasks he hasn't learned how to manage yet.
Something in the air the past two weeks that has made me aware that I feel guilty and almost ashamed, that I should be gifted with two.
I'm working to not flaunt it. I'm definitely more aware of my hand actions these days and my feelings surrounding them.
Thursday, December 15, 2016
There is a certain inalienable fear when I pick up brush to paint. Will it be good enough, ostracized, reveal too much of my inner sanctum. It's like beginning to write a book without a clear ending. Unknowing if the final product will match the dream.
In a way, painting, creating is like looking at a dirty canvas and slowly, with rag of vicious turpentine, delicately wiping away the grime to reveal the picture underneath that has always been there, in my dreams, in my head.
As I stare at blank canvas, naked wood, within my mind I am "told" what colors and designs to employ next. It's a process of trusting...myself and the creation....it's risky, scary...it's show who I am.
The naked artist
Just lots of unique perspectives come to mind, brush in hand and moving with an inner pulse
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Today, I noticed that just before I switched that my body felt heavy, like I was sinking deeply into the couch.
Sometimes I'll feel dizzy like I can't quite complete my sentences and the roller coaster is slowing to a stop.
I've had switches do fast that I felt nothing but a blink.
Rarely, I've felt as if I'm falling backwards into myself. It's not scarey, maybe because I've done it so many times before.
Sometimes it feels as if I'm sitting next to another part of me and if I, say glance right, I'll fall away and she will be out.
Having so little time in therapy, and with how long it can take to switch, about 5-15 minutes, I may end up employee a strategy that worked with therapist #2, having different alters come out in the waiting room and walking into the office. It eliminates that frustrating beginning and gets right to things that matter. I'd forgotten how often and how well that worked with #2.
Now that I am back in therapy and more aware of what's transpiring, expect more insight into DID, MPD.
Today it heavily dawned upon me, I really like hugs. It almost felt like the first time I ever got a warm, safe hug when asking and receiving one from Neo.
I feel like a delinquent, like I've been missing out on something intrinsically special and necessary. And I want to get back everything I've missed.
It seems so basic...and....not something I should have to beg for or feel bad about asking for. I almost feel the need to apologize, as if I'm needy and asking for the golden fleece and I'm not worthy.
I can't put into words how good to felt, how deeply, like a blanket finally covering a large, gaping wound that had been left open.
Words can't heal as much as a simple heartfelt hug.
It's kinda like I never felt one till today.
I want more but I don't want to be needy or overwhelming.
I don't know how many hugs I'm entitled to. Is there a set limit before I annoy? I don't want to annoy or put anybody out.
Gosh, I wish I'd gotten hugs all my life, or once a month like this one I got today.
I don't feel so alone now. I really like hugs. JB
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
A "switch" is when personalities change. Right now, "I" am out, some refer to it as "the front" or front or face. Lol, I often refer to it as "point" from the military's "being on point", the very front of the line.
So, I'm out. If another personality, say "B" wants to come out and front, then I kinda start fading and everything around me gently, or suddenly blurs and I'm gone...gone "inside", within my mind. I may or may not have knowledge of B or what she is saying. If I could hear her and be aware of her, I would be "coconscious". Sometimes I am, sometimes I'm not.
When B is done talking and it's my turn to come back out to the front, it's often more dramatic, like someone shaking my shoulder and waking me up from a deep slerp. I'm almost always groggy and a bit disoriented, maybe dizzy. It's like I have to fit back into my body and feel like I'm in my body again.
It's pretty damn distressing at first and takes some time to get comfortable with the whole switching process. I mean, to switch I basically give up all control, to my body, my words and actions.
At this point in my therapy and for the past few years, actually, I only completely switch within that 55 minute therapy session or when I'm by myself at night. It's not a daily occurrence that interfere with this bland reality, lol.
Switching feels different based on whether I'm going, fading or when I'm waking up, going out front.
Oy, after not living as a Multiple for 5 months, my system had been carefully shut-down so that we could easily move cross-country, starting therapy means the flashbacks, memories and people/ alters are waking up.
It feels unnerving yet oddly familiar. The anxiety is like hot wires on fire. People want to meet the new therapist now, so I'm working to hold back the flood.
We knew our previous therapist, #2, was a "patch", temporary, as she worked part-time and spoke of retirement. New therapist, #3, is nowhere near retirement and works full-time. We know #3 is the long term therapist that we have been searching for.
I wondering how the pace will change...after the excitement and enthusiasm whereby each get to meet her, wears off. We definitely worked fast and furious because we've known for months that the insurance with #2 was running out. Do things slow down and get dealt with thoroughly? Will there be breathing room between major memories? As I recall, there were no breaks these past few years that didn't last more than a week.
I'll be inquiring as to whether or not insurance will allow, and therapist 3 would agree, to a longer session. In therapy, there is a 5-20 minute intro before I'm able to switch into memory mode. Of even more importance is that I require 5-15 minutes to put myself back together. If the intro and exit take 30 minutes or so, I'm left with 20-25 minutes of actual DID work. That's not much.
I'll ask if 90 minute sessions would be available or not. Either way, it's going to take me some time to adjust to appointments and manage people.
Seriously, my life revolves around caring for my son and managing my autistic Multiple self.
Yeah, this anxiety is so overboard. Picture roaring lion pawing through the clawed door or three ships trying to reach the locks simultaneously, racing. Holding live wires so they don't short each other out. Quite simply, four people all banging at the door wanting in Now, but the timed door doesn't open for 12 hours.
Welcome to my life.
It's nice to finally be able to talk about my MPD/DID...it really is...refreshing.
Thanks for reading. Even if you don't fully understand my spastic rant. Thanks for reading.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Wow, if this doesn't describe my everyday Aspie life....
He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him.
He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so.
Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him.
But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie-no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
DID/MPD is probably one of the cruelest disorders. It isn't a mental illness in that I wasn't born multiple. My DID was created/perpetrated on me through a series of severely trauma and painful experiences. To have DID, I must have endured severe, repeatative abuse at the hands of someone trusted, in addition to not having enough nurturing and care.
I can only guess that therapists working with Multiples (which is what some of us call ourselves as in the older term, Multiple Personality Disorder) must be both fascinated and disturbed at the same time.
My experiences have shown me that the only way to heal from the pain of DID is to say aloud and relive the horrific incidents that caused me to split and fracture in the first place. I get to speak about it and I need someone to hear me. That's where the therapist comes in. I can't imagine hearing such things by an average person. It's ugly, brutal and highly disturbing.
I know my previous therapist said I was her most fascinating client. I'm guessing calling me her most disturbing client wouldn't have been therapeutically appropriate.
DID is an extreme condition. It truly would blow your mind to try and follow the complexity of the matters of my mind. You have no idea. It's just me.
I'm all good
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
Touch validates my existence. It means that I'm real, seen, heard and someone else, in this world, is not repulsed by me.
It's really that simple.
I've often been...oh, embarrassed maybe, wondering if I'm crossing some therapeutic boundary or revealing too much of how I feel deep inside.
I'm a big, strong adult that has falsely prided myself on the fact that I need no one. I had no one and I took the initiative and stopped showing any needs, any soft underbelly or weakness because my needs weren't worthy of being met. Or they would be exploited and used against me.
I don't want to need anyone....so I'll whisper this...I do need someone to touch...so I know that I am real and that I'm okay.
I often wondered if it was the 50 years of less than adequate affection or, more likely, the supreme distance and disconnect I feel on a daily basis being autistic. Maybe that's part of it, too. It would make sense.
All I know for sure is that I need a safe therapist that allows me to touch or hold her hand at times. I recognize what I need to feel safe and heal.
Monday, December 5, 2016
Well, we went in for our 4th appointment in a fb panic. Shared some basic instructions I've learned:
Sit close unless one of three things happen- whoever enters pushes the empty chair back against the wall, asks her to move back and 3, most likely, someone will tell her in a not nice way, one of the protectors.
I only ran over time in the last 3 yrs about 5 times due to instability after switching. I like, I pride myself on being punctual to and from appointments.
Don't let me leave disoriented. It happened once before and it was a bit frightening. Mostly I need to be aware of my state of mind. If I'm not stable, I'll sit in the lobby.
I asked her if she was going to flip out on me when I switched. She didn't know how she was going to reactive, if she'd say and do the right things but she was pretty sure she wouldn't flip out.
Sooooo....I switched into an alter about 8 years old. He sat quietly with her for a bit, then talked some. Then it was time to switch out. It was rather dramatic, Joker.
Therapist looked pale and somewhat shaken...unnerved might be the best word. I have to remember that therapist has never experienced switching and DID before. I always wondered what it must be like for therapists....especially the very first time they witness it up close.
My previous therapist had never encountered the likes of me before Either and she survived. She was either better at hiding her emotions or I wasn't able to see them through my own chaos. I think she appeared more flustered after she and I realized I was switching. She ended up doing great, excellent and with zero experience.
So, new therapists lack of experience doesn't bother me although I am concerned that she may rethink this whole working with me if it's beyond her capabilities. I'll probably send her an email in a couple of days, to see if she is still willing to work with me or if she can't handle it. I think a couple of days will give her time to analyze the situation.
It's clear that she had done some reading and research, judging by her questions and comments. We will see.
I had to get it out of the way. I don't want to get invested and then have a therapist flake. Something tells me she's the one. I should nickname her Neo.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
My dad was many things, different things to different people. I laugh at his obit where it says he was married to "the love of his life." OMG, is that a dysfunctional and cruel use of the term "love."
Anyway, my dad was a good father, at times, to his kids. No doubt, can't deny, he did support, help out and love his children.
He was also a tormented individual that endured a harsh childhood full of physical, sexual and emotional abuse. That was the part of him that I knew best...the angry man that had been deeply hurt and violated, so much so that he felt unable to control his own thoughts and actions. He violated his own children. He beat some of them. He raped others.
I don't fault those that remember him as a good man, because he was. Don't fault me for seeing him in a darker, more putrid light as I was his victim.
It sounds almost criminal to say...but sometimes leaving your family is the healthiest and sanest thing to do.
Growing up, I was taught that my family was everything to me and that I was nothing without them. No one voluntarily leaves their biological group....it's unheard of and reserved for outcasts, addicts and the sick in the heads. I can't think of anyone who willfully dons the title of black sheep.
I was shoved into a corner. Mentally, I couldn't handle my incestuous father sneaking over to my apartment during his lunch hour. I couldn't get my mother in denial to support me in any way, shape or form. I couldn't confide in my siblings, aunts or uncles. Hell, I couldn't find words to explain the emotional torment of being my dad's sex slave for 20 years. I went crazy inside. I left in the middle of the night and turned myself in to a psych hospital 3 hours away. And I didn't tell anyone in my family where I was going.
I left them all.
No, it wasn't easy. I cried on that 3 hour journey over leaving my brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and my loving grandma. I simply could not live, deeply embedded within the family of high dysfunction whereby the patriarch raped and sodomized his own children, the mother covered it up and no one was able or willing to help me make the madness stop.
It hurt to leave but it hurt more to be my dad's constant victim.
Leaving your family Is an option. It is a Personal choice that no one can make for you.
I made the right choice for me. There was no way that I could have ever been able to achieve a degree of sanity living within the family that secrets built.
If you are thinking about it, know that it Can be done and it is sometimes the Healthiest option.
I'm living proof.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
What a great loss...for him.
He had one of the kindest, most caring and creative individuals under his roof...and he never got the time to know me, to love all that I am
Friday, December 2, 2016
I've never liked waving hello, goodbye or even "hey there." My hands, like my feet, would rather stay close to my center.
If there was a line from the tiptop of my head straight down, that would be my centerline and I don't like to stay from it.
Even as I walk, I take measured, smaller steps. Taking a large step would just feel wrong, unnatural and I'd feel vulnerable.
It is my normal not to wave, always has been. I'll do a friendly chin thrust but that's usually as far as I'll go.
It's funny because as a mom I'd wave very little to my older Aspie son, but with my neurotypical little guy I'll routinely wave hello or goodbye because it's required for his emotional wellbeing.
I used to beat myself up for not waving but I've grown more accepting of who Aspie Amy is. I'll wave if I have to but otherwise I'm good!
Well, I had to sell off some of my gold jewelry today. It's not a bad thing. I realized the food stamps were done with one week left of food needed. I did what any decent parent would have done...slot anything to make sure my growing teen had food in the house. It felt like a rite of passage of sorts, giving up something sparkly but useless for something needed and nurturing. I did what needed to be done, plain and simple.
Now, I'm figuring out what other community resources are available in case this happens again. They are out there.
In a fair world, my son would receive child support and I'd get palimony, but Guy the Dick never could treat me as an equal. Support would mean giving up that precious control and acknowledging that all the times I was called partner, I actually was one. Can't have anything that would resemble an unequivocal equal. No, I'll always be something less in his eyes.
I'm learning how to step up and be a good mom. Pretty proud of myself today.
Having lived the DID\ MPD life for over half a century and completing 20+ years of intense psychotherapy, I can look back and see when it was the most difficult...when I was first diagnosed.
Learning of the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder or Multiple Personality Disorder in my time, sent me into a chaotic tailspin. "What could have happened to me that I was so traumatized that I fractured and fragmented? How many parts of me are there and what memories do they hold? Are parts of me dangerous, mean, vindictive or hurtful? Who am I?
First off, remember this...you have been DID most of your life. DID is a normal, extreme response to life-threatening trauma. You lived through it because of your system, all your DID parts. You Were Made for Survival!
Yes, the diagnosis is distressing and upsets the apple cart/ your entire way of thinking but it is your normal.
I remember being overly preoccupied with the number...how many people (I've always called my parts people as most have names and ages) are in my system (the entirety of me)? I figured if I had, oh, 5 or 10 then it would be easier than having 50 or 100. Wrong. The number doesn't matter one iota.
I'm guessing I had about 40? People at one point. Some had nothing buy a single horrific memory or was present at 2 traumas. Others held the memories and feelings of dozens of rapes or beatings because that was their job and they knew how to deal with that specific, weekly abuse. It was only in the past year that my therapist and I discovered two entire layers of deeply buried memory people that I didn't know existed. Just because their memories were more painful, they were kept hidden much farther away from the surface. I knew enough not to panic at these newbies. I wasn't regressing. I was healing and in healing things come to light.
Flashbacks are awfully distressing at first. Remember that you lived through them once and You Can Live Through Them Again. Understanding that a flashback generally occurs when you are able to start dealing with it, helps a tiny bit. It Does Get Easier. Flashbacks are your brains way of healing. Find tips to help you get through it. Write then down, call a therapist or crisis line, learning how to "put flashbacks on hold" until your next therapy appointment and stay as calm as you can.
When I lived alone, I could keep a notebook out so that any of my people could write when they wanted, whatever they wanted. It was an outer bulletin board, in a sense. Internally, within the structure my people lived in, I installed a large bulletin board directly before the hallway leading to outside reality. Upon this I put photos of therapist, loved ones, pets and anyone could put in a request to see therapist next visit and it would try to be honored. When there were to many things that needed discussion at therapy, I'd work to prioritize so that the most disruptive issues would get attention first.
You have internal helpers and protectors. I used to see my people with these jobs most often in dreams. I remember a couple of elderly people, babysitters and even knights and soldiers. Each system is unique but you probably have people like this.
I don't want to overwhelm you anymore than necessary. I wanted to point out some of the more valuable and hopefully helpful things that I have learned and wish I knew back then.
It's going to be okay.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
I haven't had an acupuncture treatment since I arrived here 4 months ago or so. I asked my housing helper, CC, if she would go with me to check out the Corvallis Community Acupuncture Clinic. My doctor had recommended it. Researching on the line, the Clinic was the cheapest and only affordable place in town. They didn't charge as they operated strictly on donations of whatever you could afford. I was majorly excited to see this place.
CC and I located the building. We went in and talked with the receptionist. The first thing I did was mention that I was autistic and that I was wondering if I could see the treatment room. The receptionist kinda lit up when I said "autistic", as if she had some idea of what the word meant.
She gladly walked us down the hall and showed us the treatment room. Omg, I couldn't even walk in the place...I couldn't believe my eyes...I did keep the tears in because my dreams of getting acupuncture were suddenly dashed against the rocks.
It truly was a Community clinic in that all clients were treated in one large room. There were 10 cot-like seats, beds and 8 were occupied with semi-slumbering clients in a wide variety of ages. I knew I'd never be a client in that room. I could never close my eyes in a room with ten others. The only time I'm not distressed is when I'm the only one in the room and my anxiety rises with each additional breathing body.
No, no, no, this girl would never be a victim, client in that big room. No, no, no, nope.
Maybe it's just not time for acupuncture. I mean, I've only had three meetings with New Potential Therapist. Maybe I need to focus there first.
The Acupuncture Clinic probably works really well for most, just not this Aspie.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Being in a new city I don't have to worry that another shopper will peek down the aisle, see it is me, pretend not to see me and scurry away.
I found that to be one of the oddest incidents that I frequently encountered back at my small town grocer. Apparently there are at least a handful of ex friends that don't want to run into me.
I kinda wonder what I did wrong. I kinda don't care now that I don't have to endure the evasive treatment. It often hurt a little bit. I'm trying not to make the same mistakes here that I made in manistee. If people don't know me, they won't avoid me. Just playing it safe, quiet and neutral.
I rearranged my bedroom so that I can see the other apartments from my bed. I don't feel so alone.
Some have their lights on and I watch, wondering what people are thinking, doing, hoping for.
I'm alone but not lonely. I feel solace knowing others who are completely unreachable are do near.
Living AspieDID Is really something special. Each one diagnosis, in and of itself, produces distance from others. Together, man, I'm living Inside the island in the middle of nowhere.
I taught my son how to clean the microwave and sink today. One of these days I'll have taught him how to clean the entire place.
Feeling highly, highly anti-social. The dreaded Holiday Trifecta of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas are two thirds done. I call them dreaded because each one requires high parental participation. Always happy when it's over.
I continue to be bothered by that relationship...maybe it's because Guy will never see what he did wrong, or ever feel a hint of remorse...or maybe it just want on so long and I lived with such malice and resentments that I'll have to deal with it multiple hours in therapy and write pages of posts before I get that toxic poison out of my system.
Going to bed, sullen. Got burned by a friend on fb. I was so stupid to think she was nice. See, every relationship has parameters and a price and variables, hidden rules. So, Cali wanted to give my son a gift, so ordered it and said I could pick it up.
In the meantime, Cali sent a card and check.
Today she wrote to say she cancelled the order. Rescinded offer/ gift.
Because in order to be Cali's friend one must notify her immediately upon receiving her card or at least within 2 days. I didn't know this. I'm not concerned about the gift. B, I should have known better than to accept my offer as Cali tends toward drama and needing attention. C, each and every relationship us full of these hidden rules and pitfalls.
It hurt me terribly and shocked me to hear she canceled and need more drama attention. I'm not sure why it hurt me so. The shock maybe? The realization that yet another minor friendship was dissolving before my eyes? That old familiar feeling of screwing up, giving up, this friendship stuff is too volital, confusion and it hurts. It ruined half my day. I don't need this. This is a pain I can avoid.
Silly me, avoiding pain whenever possible.
It's becoming so clear...the things that hurt me...how much and how often.
It isn't worth it to go out the door.
Not worth it to try. It's just going to break anyway. Why bother
Sunday, November 27, 2016
If you think about it, we are each born so very needy, completely dependent on someone meet our every single need.
What is it like, being born craving, requiring and having all of the basic needs unmet.
I mean, you can't help that you are unable to feed yourself, cover up when cold or locomote to a warmer spot. Is that like crying in a windstorm? Would you feel hurt? Would you just go on wailing and flailing little arms until you realized each day will always be met with some for of starvation or other, be it human warmth, physical, emotional, visual or mentally?
Do you think those early months of being neglected or loved would set you up for a lifetime? If you were ignored, cold and hungry, would you just expect that misery was a way of life?
If you were loved, wouldn't you feel always that the world is a safe, loving and warm place?
I think I'm mightily confused as to whether or not I could handle the extreme difference of feeling warm and loved versus the perpetually misery, cold and lack of anyone to consistently care for me.
What must that be like? To be born and welcomed into the world wrapped in warms arms and given a nice, soothing drink?
What must it be like, everyday, to see a human that smiles and opens their arms at the sight of you, nothing but you? And they want to hold you, kiss you, play with your hair and make you smile? What's that like to hear oodles of soft, caring words Given freely to you? What's it like to feel welcome....loved....wanted.....and safe?
I can only imagine it must be very nice
Saturday, November 26, 2016
One of the things that writing aloud, blogging does is it allows me to see memories in a different light.
Writing about my mother is making me realize that all this time I felt deep down unlovable. Because if your own momma can't love you, who can? You know? I always thought it was me, my fault. Reality is that she couldn't love me even if she had tried.
I continually am amazed that I've gotten this far in my life without a consistent, truly loving human. I truly am alone and have been for a very long time. I'm not sad about it. It's just the way it is.
Friday, November 25, 2016
I guess there are cases where incest happens to only one child in a family, as well as a perpetrator sexually abusing only one victim. This does not apply to my father. He assaulted many children. His appetite was insatiable. The only reason I know this is because I was there, I witnessed, I saw, I stayed quiet.
For reasons of privacy, as I respect each persons way of revealing and dealing with their own assaults, I will remain very vague about specifics. It's not my place to narrate another person's story. I will tell my story in ways that, I hope, do no harm.
My dad's pedophilia stemmed from his own sexual abuse. It burned and scarred him terribly. In a sense, he was somewhat helpless in his abuses of children. Short of being imprisoned, I don't think anything could have stepped my father's...compulsions to molest small children.
I personally saw him rape three other children. None of whom speak of it. Part of me hopes they don't remember but part of me sees that they suffer with the secret harm. It's not my place to name names, so I won't.
Dad had an unhealthy obsession with children's genitals. Even though he molested me multiple times every week, in my mind he was more drawn to boys than girls. I would like to think that by the time he and mom were babysitting grandchildren that dad would have gotten control of his sick obsessions, but honestly, I do not know.
I say this next part, partially to rid myself of any lingering doubts that I knowingly and willfully abused...my dad thought it a pleasurable game to fondle and digitally sodomize very small children. Unfortunately it was something he forced me to do as well. I had no choice. I really didn't. I regret it deeply. Therapy continues to help me understand the power and threats my father held over me. I was an unwilling pawn in my father's perversions.
I can only hope my dad's many victims seek or have sought therapy for the damaging injustices done to them.
There were many. Sadly. There were many.
Do I wish my mother would have loved me, or at least liked me? Of course, who wouldn't? I've done remarkably well for an individual that has never had any degree of healthy, consistent, unconditional love.
I know my mom knew about the incest as she witnessed it a few times. Regarding the excessive physical abuse, both my parents were totally on board with that.
I have come to believe that my mother was incapable of loving me, one of her daughters whereas I think she was able to love her sons. Her, oh hatred isn't the right word, maybe I should say distaste and dislike for her daughters stemmed from her own abusive childhood? I'm just guessing here. There are a few indicators that I can recall. Once, mom told me she wore all black for a year in high school. To me that is a serious cry for help rather than a fashion statement. Goth was simply not in during the late 50's.
I remember asking two of my mom's sisters what beloved Grandma was like when mom was growing up. They said that both gram and gramps spent most of their time working and weren't very attentive. I picked up the impression that my mom may have been treated harshly and frequently called names like "cow" although she didn't appear overweight in any photos I saw. Mom seems to have mentioned being called names and put down by her parents here and there.
I can't say if my maternal grandfather was an abuser or not. I don't have enough info. My recollections are that once gramps, who spent a considerable amount of time at the public pool, was asked to leave the pool and not come back due to inappropriate contact with two minors. I was in the kitchen when mom received the phone call probably from grandma. I remember mom was upset about this and turned to my younger brother. She held his shoulders and told him that "under no circumstances was he to be alone with grandpa." Gosh, I'm surprised how clear and serious her words were. The look on her face suggested that she fully believed the allegations she had just heard on the phone.
The third red flag was when I was one of many in the car with gramps as he picked up my aunt from work at the mall. My aunt got in the front seat. She was upset about something. Next thing I know she blurts out loud, "Well I wouldn't have to be with a woman if you hadn't done what you did to me!" Years later I asked my other aunt about these memories. She adamantly stated that I heard wrong. Maybe I did. Maybe she was in denial. I honestly don't know.
If my mom was a victim, who married another victim, well, that would explain my dire childhood. I don't think I can hate anyone, even mom, if she was wounded and do damaged that she didn't have the capacity to love me. Maybe I should feel good in the knowledge that I wasn't loved for anything I did or didn't do...I was unloved because mom was too hurt.
I need to think about that for awhile...it feels big...groundbreaking, heart-mending big.
Under the clouded sun
The parking lot
Lifeless without motion
My upstairs Asian boys three
No longer walking on my head
Quiet in vacancy, like a passing thought
You once knew
Resident fledglings have scattered to distant nests.
The pigskin flew
Helmets got hammered
No pleasing everyone
Best not to hope too hard
On things that matter
Not a tinker's damn.
Falling where it will,
Such power in having no master
Being unnoticed, uncontrolled,
Raindrops hit the ground
As they die? No
As they transform
Silent as they fall in the grey mist
Do they hit each other?
Coalesce, become one or three or five
Is dropping sweet release or suicide?
The sound I hear seems so peaceful
Unlike the death scream of those afraid.
I wonder how long their journey
From Heaven to Earth
And back again.
Grateful for the moves made that have allowed me to become a freebird.
The lack of distress like wearing jammies and eating cookies all day.
Thursday, November 24, 2016
Because I can
My perpetrator father is dead therefore his threats to harm me or someone I love are gone.
I have no one to keep quiet for. I estranged myself from my family, severing most of those once important and vital relationships. Those old adages pounded into my brain, "family first, family above all else, you can never leave your family, you would be nothing without them" have long since lost their dysfunctional hold on me.
I have no one, nothing to lose.
I speak for the thousands of woman and men suffering silently within incestuous families. I get it. I understand why you are unable to speak about it. I will speak for you.
Keeping silent made me feel shame and guilt, like I was the criminal. See, I've realized that I am not. I was a small, innocent, impressionable child. My parents took full advantage of that and twisted me into a grotesque minor character in their sick play of "everything is okay, we are wonderful parents, really." I'm done with the shame and I have Nothing to be guilty for.
Breaking the taboo of talking about what happened, about incest and child sexual abuse breaks, or at least puts a small dent in the stigma of incest/ child sexual abuse.
I speak out Loudly
Ha, so I've decided to call my ex "Guy the Dick" in the interest of...anonymity and my usual, subtle degree of respect. This is my story. These are how I perceived and felt. This blog, other than my scant 1 hour a week of therapy, is my only platform whereby I can set free all the thoughts and feelings I was too afraid to say out loud.
The secrets were making me sick. I was invalidating my experiences to save others from embarrassment. Sometimes you have to throw down the gauntlet and save yourself, you know?
This past relationships was an exercise in stifling me. I was virtually invisible, a modest statue in the corner that made Guy the Dick feel less alone and more powerful, after all he bought and paid for the statue and dammit, it need to pose exactly as he wanted.
I'm still mad. I choked on angst night after night, as I silently screamed about the injustice in a relationship in which I was denied basic human rights, the same ones all the other three in the household had.
What kind of low-life, under carpet dust speck was I that allowed a mirror loving, egotistical breathing thing, to treat me as so subpar that I was unworthy of having my own bed? Why was I chastised and relegated to, what amounted to, a spare makeshift bed in a heavily trafficked family room? Was I invisible? Did Guy the Dick even once see my plight or consider how it must have felt? Nope, Guy the Dick can see and sense only his own needs. No one else's matter.
When you know, you Know someone, your partner, the one you want to spend the rest of your life with is sick with serious illness, do you not ask if there is anything you can do to help? Do you take them to the doctor? Cook and serve chicken soup and try and find something that will make their life easier? Show you care? Do you care? Nope, not if your partnered with someone like Guy the Dick.
I was angry, heavily frustrated and feeling totally powerless being an invited poorly treated guest at Guy's. I couldn't fathom the right words to ask for what any breathing human needs, dignity. I had blindly and wholly put my faith and trust in my mistaken belief that people were good and caring through and through. I couldn't believe that I would ever be treated as less than equal.
When you are a guest and have zero self-esteem you just take whatever is thrown your way. You are at the complete mercy of the selfish inn owner.
I guess I didn't think much of myself. Did I deserve exactly what Guy had?
If Guy got sick, I'd automatically take care of him. I'd constantly be asking and thinking about what I could do to help him.
See, I thought he thought like I. Gotta hate that autism at times. My inability to see the narrowness and indifference of my ex kept me subdued on the couch.
It was pure cruelty. Really. Okay, maybe the mental illness of narcissism played a hefty role, too. It wasn't right. I had no dignity. I was not afforded any respect.
I So Did Not Deserve That!!! Guy you Dick!
I've suddenly realized that being famililess and with scant close friends, that I am completely free to Say Anything, to stand on a soapbox and Finally release all the secrets that I've been forced into silencing.
It's like killing your own soul when you have to suffocate and stymie your own personal history because it might upset, gross out or ruin a friend/ family relationship.
I can't help but wonder how many "loving" families are smiling around the family table knowing they are sitting next to or across from a child molester. Yeah, keep smiling in denial while the shame of secrets eats you away.
Let the stories begin!
I'm not writing this for validation. I am well aware of what happened.
I have no reason to lie. I don't need any attention. If you don't like what I write, don't read it.
It boggles me how anyone can judge or be a vested, anonymous stranger with strong opinions, when they weren't living in my family's home.
Trust me, I would doubt the validity of my own positively bizarre truths unless I was actually there experiencing them. This stuff is hideous, horrendous and the kind of stuff that can put a most cruel slant on the wonderful, rose-colored world we wish to be true.
Yeah, I'll try to maintain some degree of anonymity for the others involved.
It's weird how some get all concerned that my dead father isn't here to defend himself. WTF? Who defended me when I was 3 or 4 or 8 or 12? Seriously? Think about it.
I left my home state about four months ago. I intentionally set it up so that I wouldn't have to say goodbye to the few people I would miss. Call me rude or disrespectful but I only did it that way because saying goodbye is just too damn painful.
I don't need showy gestures of hugs and tears for closure or to know I feel for them. Something tells me they already knew what a healing, profound difference they made in my life.
I needed to do things on my terms with the least amount of hurt. I'm okay with that.
DID is near and dear to my heart as I have lived with this disorder all my life. Here's what I have learned:
DID/ Multiple Personality Disorder MPD means that a very young individual, usually under the age of three, is exposed to some type of overwhelming trauma, often physical or sexual abuse. Stop right there and picture a child you know around that age...beautiful, full of life and wonder, trusting, curious...then picture that child being hit once or fondled/ molested. Hard to imagine, isn't it? That anyone could ever do that to a child.
Now, here's the sobering news...adults rape, beat and starve children by the thousands Every single day. No one wants to talk about it. No one wants to even entertain such horrendous thoughts but it Is reality we choose to ignore.
Okay, back to the small child. A child's mind is an incredible, dynamic invention. When experienced trauma overruns the child's neural network, this wonderful survival mechanism kicks in. The child is able to dissociate, withdraw deeply into her own psych or float away to a safe place until this trauma can be dealt with.
The child's mind "split" although I tend to think of it more as a fracture, like an iceberg cleaving off a glacier only to float around in the vast ocean, never losing its size, content or shape, just drifting near and far, near and far.
In a family like mine where my dad, a victim of physical and sexual abuse himself, routinely, weekly sometimes daily, would sodomize his children and engage them in performing sexual acts, in addition to believing hitting/ beating your child was appropriate, I was exposed to graphic sexual acts...oh, let's be conservative here, say, on a weekly basis, let's say three times, every week from birth till 16.
Being autistic may have set me up in that I was more sensory sensation than most. On the other hand, I consider autism to be one step removed from reality thus it was easier for me to get safe and dissociate/ leave my body, the present painful experiences.
Dissociation is an extraordinary survival mechanism utilized and developed for horrific traumas.
Let's face it, dad rubbing his hands or genitals all over my body= sensory overload not to mention it felt dirty and like ick. Having no means to physically escape, I mentally left.
So my childhood was spent in various states of pain, confusion and dissociation. I was kept busy "organizing" if you will, the traumatic experiences while also working to maintain a decent "front" or "face". You know, like I had to pretend nothing was wrong. I had to go to school and make sure no one suspected otherwise dad would carry out his threats. I don't know how much of my covering up was due to his threats...sure, I didn't want him hurting me, my mom or my siblings but part of me didn't want anyone to know that I was thus whorish 5 year old little girl who regularly felt icky at having to entertain my dad's penis. When someone has there hands routinely on your genitals you feel creepy, dirty and diseased. Damn, it's almost impossible to have any sense of self-esteem or goodness at all, really.
What I did do was organize my "system", my parts, alters or, as I like to call them my people into categories kinda like floors in a big office building. One floor was for the physically abused ones. If mom or dad raised a hand, broom or brush to strike, I would switch, change to a personality that knew how to handle that. A personality that was used to beatings and could deal with that much physical pain. Oh, and this group of alters learned to not show emotion, no tears as my parents seemed to thrive on sering the hurt written all over my face. Helk, it didn't do any good to cry, so why bother?
Another floor housed all my people that were created solely for socializing and to put on a good, happy front. I have to laugh because these were the adorable and friendly ones kinda created out of thin air, very superficial and the first to show up in therapy and integrate, picture the floating iceberg returning and melting into the glacier.
There were two wings in which one group loved mom and a bigger group of those who loved dad. It's do complicated I'm just going to leave that there for now.
Then, the largest group of all, we're the parts of me that were tortured and sexual abused. These very vital, core parts of me lived within often heavily fortified rooms with thick walls. I tried to protect them within and used separate rooms in quiet locations. Each part...so violently damaged that it often had other alters specifically created as protectors and helpers or companions.
The numbers of alters Does Not Matter as one alter could have carried the memory of one trauma or all the rape instances that took place in a certain year or in a certain place. When first diagnosed, I was hung up on "how many" erroneously thinking the higher the number, the more difficult the healing. Sooo Not the case!
I stopped counting after those first few years.
The toughest part about being Multiple is that first year when the diagnosis is made. Those first few years were by far the most confusing and chaotic of times. Finding a psychotherapist was the key to getting my chaos under control.
I'm not going you, bring told you have DID is frightening because it's like your known world has suddenly turned upside down and you find this inner world of hurt.
I did not know anything about my incest until I was 27. My body and brain were so brutalized that I had wall upon wall built around the incest memories. I had no resources to handle that much pain.
I was worried about these "others" living inside of me, like bring in a big group home with strangers of various names and ages, each with a unique, painful story harbored within.
Therapy helped me understand what DID/MPD was. It allowed me to most slowly explore one floor or one room at a time. One of the cruel things about DID is that you get to experience the traumas twice, when the incident first happened and Again when you choose to bring it into consciousness and out in the open.
Face it, most people don't want to hear about your DID. Hell, I lived years with a significant other who never mentioned it or asked about it. It's hard to find others that understand that unique pain and how it feels. I felt degraded and dirty and, of course, the big guilty. Perpetrators want you to feel like it's all your fault and they work real hard to make you believe that.
I know better now. I really do know that none of that, the incest, sodomy, performing those sex acts, the beatings...none of that was my fault. I didn't deserve it. My dad just manipulated me into believing it was my fault for a few decades.
And mom, well, mom knew and she reinforced my silence. She liked to call me a whore among other things. She was a co-conspirator as most mom's of incestuous husbands are. See, if her husband was having sex with her daughter then she didn't have to. Yeah, way to go mom.
Anyway, this is just one segment of my life living MPD/DID.
I hope it has answered some questions and maybe helped a person or two.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
So therapist says: I don't know you well enough...should I be worried?
Me (on the inside): oh, how quaint
(On the outside): I always manage. Go on your vacation, come back, don't come back, don't flatter yourself, no skin off my nose
I had a close call. Pulled a pan with hot oil out of the oven and it splattered hard and wide. Luckily, uncharacteristically, I was wearing my glasses and the left was covered in hot oil. I was scared. I carefully used some Dawn to wipe the oil off with a rag. No blistering, so nothing more than some minor first degree burns to that side of my face. I am grateful. My sweatshirt showed how pervasive the splatter was.
Needless to say, I lost my appetite and threw my chopped potatoes in the garbage.
Bad oil. Bad, naughty pan. Almost threw that out but thought better. Not sure if or when I'll be able to cook my potatoes and onions again. Not worth the risk.
Realized why my son takes apart every show, commercial, plot, etc. I am a buzz kill and take things apart like that, show the negative, expose the impossibilities, strip off the drama and hype. Caught myself doing that as we watched a movie last night. Boy, I got issues. Need to stop taking things do seriously. Find this thing called fun.
Taught my kid to: respect parental authority; respect and honor his teachers and other adults; various chores and home responsibilities; that things aren't just going to be handed to them as he has to earn them. An hour of game time will only occur after one chore, one hour of playing and half an hour of reading so Now he does these three things Without question before asking for game.
I've taught him that his company is enjoyable as we engage in watching movies together, going for walks and playing board games. His Scrabble skills have definitely improved. He's reading Moby Dick which he is finding boring but almost finished. He knows enough to eat carrots, apple, banana or other fruit before getting one serving of chips at night.
I'm thinking of giving up my yummy sleep supplements in favor of staying up late at night and sleeping more in the morning. Yeah, back to my old schedule. I miss those four hour at night when I have the place to myself and my creativity runs high under the moon. I haven't gotten enough me time.
Oh yeah, now that I've settled in here the mask and walls of fearless momma have come falling down. I had to wear brave face until we did get comfy settled in. Now, sigh, now I can safely say that parts of my four day journey here were positively Terrifying, in a word. Just Terrifying. One topic of today's therapy session.
Yes, I've come undone but only to return to my true self with whom I am quite comfortable and at ease with.
This therapist is quite different. I kinda like her, I think.
I talked with her about a topic I've never ever spoke of....she did fine...interesting...lots to ponder.
I've changed enormously since therapy five months ago..so much new information that I need to wrangle and figure out how to time manage in a 50 minute session. What do I spend hours doing? Prioritizing topics and discussions for therapy. Yeah, hours and hours.
It's like everything I know is kinda new in an expanded sense. I accomplished tremendous insight with Mary. It was like we dug up all the gooey crap from the bottom of the sewer, spread it out and sifted through it to a high degree. Now, it's a matter of integrating this new info into a cohesive format. Mary was great and wonderful. And, yeah, now that I'm settled I'm allowed to miss her.
Oy, all the tears and fears that I've had to keep bottled these five months now are free to be released and they bubble and burst all over the surface. Not a bad thing, no, not a bad thing At All. It's all good. It's healing. This is how I roll. Life is good. I love Oregon. I have a greater appreciation of the depth of my bravery and the heights of my remarkable accomplishments.