More than this …
a litany of memory gaps,
a fuzzy and foggy world, and
selves that work against each other.
I am more than this – I think, I believe …
I want it to be so, more than the sum of the parts of my selves.
But want can only go so far, what do you do when all you have is want?
One hardly has a map or plan.
It’s a prayer, some faith, and a Hail Mary throw or two.
It’s all we have, and so we’ll take it and run and run and run.
Today, as usual, I woke up with that stuck to the bed familiar feeling that I often have in the morning upon waking up. The difference is that I’m better able these days to shake it off in shorter order than I was in the not so distant past. Though I did have the sense that I had a rough night of dissociative sleeping, but I had no clues beyond my foggy feeling.
Fast forward to the kitchen, last stop before I head out the door, and I’m trying to find the damn grilled chicken that I’m taking for lunch. I can’t find it, and I know I bought it, and I know where I put it in the refrigerator. I proceeded to nearly empty the entire refrigerator looking for this chicken. Finally, I see the chicken on the counter, right near my lunch bag, and I have no idea as to how it got there. I start furiously searching my memory for the moment I put it on the counter, and there is nothing there. I shake and shake and shake my brain for the memory of taking out the chicken to no avail. Finally, I just leave for my appointment with Doc, and I’m late for it by 5-7 minutes.
As I sit down, Doc mentions to me that I am consistently 5-7 minutes late for my appointments, and he asks me why. I tell him that the reasons are different each time. This time I tell him about the chicken incident, to which he says to me, “Did you ask inside?” I became slightly annoyed, and I said to him that I did not ask inside as I was running late for an appointment. He then pointed out that asking inside about the chicken might have given me some answers as to who took out the chicken, why they felt compelled to “help out” or whether someone was trying to delay getting to the appointment, etc.
Then I became further annoyed because he asked me why I did not ask inside, why did I just keep going through my memory bank when I know I have DID. I then said that sometimes in moments like that I question the DID, and look for another answer.
He seemed to soften when I said that, and said that he understood that tendency. But, he went on to say that intrinsic memory will only become extrinsic memory when I start questioning why certain things are happening. For example, a good time to look for the extrinsic memory would have been upon waking up with the stuck to the bed feeling. He said that if I make myself open to the extrinsic memory when odd or disturbing things happen eventually the extrinsic memory will come, but only if I make myself available to it.
I want that, and I don’t want that. I want to move on from this limbo of trauma and dissociation, but I am afraid to fully know what got me here. I will try to be more open to answers. We shall see, but make no mistake, I’m afraid to know what lies beneath.
Photo credit: Wikipedia
I recently wrote about my father, and I find myself thinking of him again on this day. I remember Father’s Day 2008 when I reached out to him, and he was drunk. He had wanted me to reach out to him, but when I did he was unable to be present in the conversation because he was drunk. This experience sent me on a drinking and acting out binge of my own. A few months later, after I entered sobriety, he sent me a chapbook of poetry. I really did not look at that book until a few weeks ago.
His drinking is so painful to me that I can’t have a relationship with him. I wish there was some way to work around it, but there isn’t. I get too messed up in my brain when I can see and hear his sickness.
I want to write more, specifically I want to write about the few good memories that I have of him. Today I want to remember the good of him, the part of him that resonated with me.
But, alas, I cannot. It’s hard enough to write this small blog post, and it has taken me an inordinately long time to do so. I’m foggy, and in and out of being present. And so, Dad, I’m sorry that I cannot do better than this post in your honor today. I hope we cross paths again before one of us leaves this earth. I miss you, and I still love you, even though you have a hard time accepting my love. It is there.
(Photo credit: Jim, the Photographer)
I take commitments seriously, and do everything in my power not to break them. But, today I found myself breaking a commitment that I wanted to keep. I started running regularly again, and I was scheduled to volunteer at a 5k race today with post-race refreshments.
As I was driving to the race location I came upon a detour that bottle-necked traffic on the highway. I felt my body start to panic and tweak out. For the first time, I understood what was happening. It was Secret. The traffic was scaring her, and because she was scared other peeps were getting scared as well. There was a domino effect at work here that needed intervention.
So I made a quick and decisive move. I immediately got off the highway, and started driving towards a place we like for breakfast. In the past I likely would have just persevered on, and eventually I would have arrived at the race. But I decided that such a move would have exacerbated things, as it has in the past. This was not a situation where I needed to get to a work site, or something just as critical. At that moment in time I needed to get the peeps feeling safe again, and proceeding on to the race likely would have delayed getting everyone feeling safe, in particular, Secret.
Until I’m able to work further with Secret on the whole traffic issue, I need to understand where she is in the process. Right now, if it takes aborting a volunteer situation in order to help her feel safe I will do it. I don’t like to let people down, but I had to make a tough choice in that moment. For the time being, I won’t be volunteering at any race that requires us to travel on the highway in order to get there.
It was a good move. Secret was on the edge for a bit the rest of the morning, but, ironically, running helped her feel better. A lot of this work is just trying to figure out how to work with the peeps or selves. And with that, I am tired, and falling asleep as I write this. Here’s hoping for no more dissociative sleep.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For days I’ve wanted and not wanted to write. The words and sentences were swirling around in my head, but I could not bring myself to take out my laptop. I feared that writing those sentences would propel me closer to the depths of blackness. My selves were vacillating between wanting an end, and not wanting an end. When I’m in a situation such as this the best thing to do is nothing, and that is what I did. I simply fell asleep in a dissociative state around 7 pm.
We saw Doc yesterday, and discovered a new self. Honestly, for some reason, I don’t care for the term “alter.” Since Doc says they are all a part of me, I shall call them selves because I can. I was late for the appointment because I got lost on the way. There is no good reason for this as I’ve been there many times.
Sure enough, Doc figured out that someone else was taking over, and out tumbled, Secret. Secret is young, though I can’t figure out her exact age at the moment. She is terrified of highways and heavy traffic. Apparently, this appears to be the reason I have so much trouble getting to his office on time, or losing my way there at times. She recalled instances of horrifying car rides with my stepfather. Even now, I feel myself slipping away because I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember the feeling of impending death from his careless and thoughtless acts behind a wheel. He loved to scare us in the car.
It seemed like Secret was around for the scary car situations, but Belle would appear when the horror turned to feelings of death. Belle holds the worst of the feelings, the feelings of wanting the pain of existence in that household to end. Belle, for the most part, just knows despair, no hope, and a desire for an end. Doc’s theory is that Belle exists just for that, to hold the worst of the despair for all the others.
As Secret started to recall the scary car experiences to Doc, Belle appeared when it became too much for Secret. Belle has this defeated sounding voice that breaks my heart. As she tells Doc that she wants to die, he comes and sits right in front of us. We are almost toe to toe. He starts to ask her to think about what it must be like for a psychiatrist to lose a patient to suicide, knowing that his patient gave up on life. He also told Belle that we don’t know what it’s like “on the other side” so stay here, and keep trying.
He then went over to his desk, and picked up a singing bowl, of which I had never seen in my life. He touched it on the side with wooden mallet, and it let out this peaceful sound that I can’t even describe. Belle asked if she could play it herself, and he allowed her to do so. Then as quickly as she felt the joy of the sound of the singing bowl, she found herself feeling like throwing up. Apparently, the good feeling was so new, and so foreign that she nearly became sick.
We were then in and out of a dissociative state for the next 12 hours. We have now come out the other end and survived, but we are tired.
It has taken me five days to compose this post. That’s how hard it’s been to write about this.
In a previous post I recounted the ways in which I am a bad friend. Well, I had a revealing conversation today that gave more evidence of that. A friend of mine asked me how my Memorial Day weekend was, and she could tell it was not a good weekend for me. I told her that it was a hard weekend because I found myself recounting previous Memorial Days when she and I were closer, and I missed it. I then went on tell her that I felt she and the rest of the group of friends abandoned me when I really needed them.
She then shocked me by telling me that was not the case, that she, in fact, called me frequently during the time after I had my traumatic incident. She then went into detail about lengthy conversations we had on the phone, and I recall none of it. She has no reason to lie to me, and she gave too many details for it to be a lie. Plus, it’s not like her to tell anything but the truth.
And in that vein, of always telling the truth, while I was still grappling with the fact that she did, in fact, keep in contact with me, she called out the elephant in the room. She said to me, ” You never visited after my son was born. You only held him once. You disappeared as soon as my son was born, and I never understood why that happened.”
So there it was, just like that, she called it out. After nearly 5 years of walking around the elephant one of us finally called it out. I decided to go with it, and tell her after all this time why I did what I did.
Nearly five years ago I hit rock bottom. I was drinking and carelessly putting myself in unsafe situations. This behavior culminated in a sexual assault from someone I knew, and that person held a job in high esteem. My friend says that I she and I had long conversations about this attack where she implored me to report it. I do not recall these conversations, but the fact the she knew so many details indicates that we did have these conversations. I can only attribute my memory loss to my DID.
Shortly after my assault my friend adopted a newborn baby. My hitting rock bottom and crawling into the rooms nearly dovetailed with the arrival of her son. And I couldn’t deal, couldn’t and wouldn’t go see the baby. All of a sudden I had an aversion to her baby. It flummoxed me because I love babies. But I could not come near this baby without getting twitchy and freaked out.
The baby was not at fault for my body’s reactions. My friend was not at fault for my body’s reactions. Although I knew that, I was powerless to change my reactions. I could not function around this poor child, and found myself avoiding going to her house to see him. I avoided this new lovely child because of the reaction my body had around this precious being. But the fallout was my friendship with this person whom I cherished. That friendship took a very bad hit, and then, eventually, the friendship was no longer alive. There were no words exchanged about it, it just became a long goodbye.
Now it is all out in the open, and the realization of the impact of my conditions on friendships has hit me hard. I have a better understanding as to why I’m largely alone. It’s hard to swallow, but it makes sense.
Today I found myself waiting for a cleaner I hired that never showed up, and that was just as well. I surprisingly felt okay, and I was able to do some cleaning myself without getting too freaked out in my apartment. That was one reason I hired a cleaner, so that things could get done in my apartment that were being neglected because of my inability to spend long periods of time in my place.
But today was different, and I can’t figure out why, though I am not complaining. I started cleaning off my coffee table while I was waiting for the cleaner. Before I knew it I realized he wasn’t coming, but I was on a roll. So, I cleaned it off. It took a while, but I did it. And here it is …
I even used the vacuum! Although it took a while to achieve such a small task of cleaning off a coffee table and vacuuming I still felt accomplished. And I felt that way because I did not freak out. I did not start getting anxious and scared and depressed in my place. I did not feel like dying, and the thoughts I used to get from Belle about death were not there. And thanks be to God for that.
It was still a hard day, and I certainly felt sadness. The difference was that it did not feel like the end of the world. The book you see on the coffee table is a poetry chapbook that my long-lost father sent me back in 2008 when we briefly reconnected. We could not maintain the connection because his active alcoholism was too much. I called him on Father’s Day that year, and became upset at hearing my father drunk on the phone. I just could not maintain a connection under such unpredictable circumstances, never knowing when he would be sober. I found that book of poetry while I was cleaning. It took my breath away. I realized that when I received it back in 2008 I had not paid much attention to it because I was still mad at him for being drunk on Father’s Day that same year in 2008. The book, braille for the heart, is a chapbook of poetry by Robert Vasquez.
And for the first time since I received the book I picked it up and looked at it. I really looked at it. For the first time ever I looked at it without anger. As I started flipping through it I found a page that he had bookmarked with a metal bookmark. I always thought it was just randomly put there. I had never really looked at what he had bookmarked until today. Here is what I found.
He underlined the last line, “Music is braille for the heart.” It just takes my breath away to see this because the underlining was meant for me, at least I presume it was. I miss him, but I don’t like thinking about how much I miss him because the pain is a huge hole in my heart. The pain of knowing that he’s been walking dead to me for decades. The alcoholism took him from me, and will likely keep him from me for the rest of our days. He is the only person on this earth who truly gets me. Case in point, he sent me a chapbook of Latino poetry without knowing how much I love poetry. I know he sent it because he connected with the chapbook. But the truth is that I’ve loved poetry since I was a child. And though he was not around when I fell in love with poetry I know that he knows because he’s the only one that knows me. And the only one that knows me is without reach. I cannot talk to him about life, or any of the challenges or accomplishments I’ve had. If I could talk to him I know he would relate to so much of it. Hell, we’re both even alcoholics. I was more like him than I wanted to be.
Oh, I miss him so. There is so much loss here that it is just hardly palpable, especially since the loss of him left me with my mother. The irony is in the fact that he’s the parent that really loved me, but his alcoholism kept us apart. This one gift from my actively alcoholic father is light years beyond anything my mother has ever given me. She may have been present, but she never had the capacity for love. It is simply not within her. Yet, she is the parent I got to be with, the one who could not love. The one who could love was and is too sick. He is sick, but I still love him, and always will.
I really liked Mr. Lame Date. Of course, I did not know he was a lame date at the moment I became smitten with him. I won’t even call him a boyfriend because it was so short-lived. But it was passionate and, like many relationships in the early stage, full of promise. We had a lot in common, he made me laugh, and those boy-next-door looks of his did not hurt.
Inevitably, once you get past the fun pleasantries at the initial stages you have to start sharing some of the real-life less than ideal crap that we have floating around in our lives. My floatie is my PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder. His is his ex-wife that has schizo-affective disorder.
After becoming close in a relatively short period of time he texted me today, yes, you read that right, he TEXTED me to say that he needs to “apply the brakes.” He finds me intelligent and “awfully interesting” (such an odd phrase), but he’s not ready to deal with someone who has similar issues to his ex-wife. Well, I didn’t know that PTSD and DID were similar to schizo-affective disorder!
It is sad to me that he’s made a broad generalization about my mental illness without knowing a whole lot about it. But, for me, the worst part is that I had him over to my apartment. I let very few people into my apartment, but I let him in because I really liked him.
So, Mr. Lame Date, to sum it up, you’re a first-class jerk. You knew I rarely let people into my apartment, but you persuaded me to have you over, and I allowed it. I allowed myself to get close to you, and incorrectly assessed you as one of the “good guys.” I was wrong. And perhaps most importantly, I regret giving you 4 of my freshly baked chocolate peanut butter cookies. You are so not worthy of such fine baking. Procurement of fine baked goods under false pretenses will inevitably backfire into bad karma.
Of course, given that today is Mother’s Day, I’ve been thinking about the fact that my mother is out of my life. It does not escape me that many of us on here struggle with PTSD or DID as a result of our childhood experiences with our mothers. I’m also certain that many of you, like me, have dreaded this day, especially when you look at your Facebook newsfeed and you see all of these lovely status updates about loving mom, having a great mom, missing a dearly departed mom, etc. This feels like the only place in the universe where I can say that I unequivocally HATE mother’s day.
Saying that you hate mother’s day is like saying you hate puppies or world peace. It’s simply a socially unacceptable thing to admit or talk about in any form where you are not anonymous. Yet, we know that there are children out there, too many children, that are taken from their parents because of abusive situations. We’ve all read stories of mothers killing their children. Then there are the countless other children that go unnoticed and reach adulthood with a terrorizing mother. For all of these children, I weep. I weep because a mother is such a fundamental part of life. We can only come into this life with a mother, but not all of those mothers are up to the task. And there is no rhyme or reason as to which of us in this life are blessed with a kind mother, and which of us are not.
On this day I reflect on how I learned not to ask for my mother for a hug, and how I was not one of the kids who would cry for her mommy. I would cry because I was sad or scared, but I did not want my mother. She was never a source of comfort. There was never that quintessential mother/daughter embrace where you feel that mother/daughter love.
Today my mother is out of my life, and has been since 2006. Unfortunately, life is more peaceful without my mother in my life. Regardless of everything that has happened between me and my mother I only want peace for her. When she does pass away I think that I’ll likely feel the same way I feel on Mother’s day, sadness for the mother I never had.
It’s refreshing to come on here and say that, yes, my mother is still alive. No, I have no contact with her. And, yes, I am very okay with that. No, I will not regret that when she dies. I only regret I did not do it sooner. No, I do not love my mother. I do not hate her either. She is just a person I have to contend with in my life. I wish her no ill will. I only wish that I continue to not see her for the rest of my days on this earth. Life is too short to share with hateful, narcissistic and vindictive people. My mother, unfortunately, falls in this category.
Eternal love goes out to all of you out there that did not have the mother you needed. Listen to me when I say that it is not a reflection of your worth. Don’t let a less than loving mother determine your worth in this life.
There is no explanation for this. I woke up this morning, and I was able to get out of bed without feeling glued to it. I don’t think I did anything differently to make this happen. I think was able to fall asleep easier because I went on a two mile walk. Today I went on a 3 mile walk, and I’m even better for it. The weather was great, and it didn’t trigger me. What a beautiful thing!
I was going to do some work I brought home, but I decided not to because it’s been such a good day, and I want to enjoy it through and through. Such good days are rare, and I decided to just enjoy it to the very end, and so I did.
It’s so odd to me that today was so different because my life is still the same as it was yesterday. I’m still largely alone, and lonely. I’m still dissociative and over weight and in an apartment that is not as put-away as I would like it to be. All these things are still status quo, but the different thing was my brain today. Today my brain was my friend, and didn’t freak or want the world to end, or some other thing that wouldn’t be a good idea.
Today was a good day. If only I could bottle it for the bad days.
My mind and my heart
Sharing stories, finding peace
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Think about your life,..
A blog reaching out to victims of abuse and others in need, providing insight about abuse, hope for the future, and guidance to see THE LIGHT that lead Secret Angel out of the darkness of her own abusive situation and helped her to not only survive but to overcome.
Dreams do come true
the secretion of art by Rhian Ferrer
Don't ever change yourself to impress someone, cause they should be impressed that you don't change to please others -- When you are going through something hard and wonder where God is, always remember that the teacher is always quiet during a test --- Unknown
A Tale too Tragic to Tell
Healing from childhood abuse is like the scariest roller coaster you ever saw. Raise your hands and scream with me. Here..we...go!
A Personal Struggle with OCD
A place to play, braiding a legacy of words
The plight of the homeless
The Ultimate Paradox: Depression in Sobriety
and the words where twisted into something uniquely her's
....life Is messy!
Reinventing the stigma of mental illness
For a Lost Language: Poems and Stories
The thoughts that bang around in my head.
When life gives you an unexpected turn its alright, hang on & enjoy the scenery!
"We all abide by the vibe we create for ourselves." >^..^< - Nhan "Nhan-Fiction" Pham
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Welcome to the inner workings of my mind
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place your oxygen mask on first before assisting others
A TWINKLING STAR- BRINGING A DASH OF HOPE, INSPIRATION AND LOVE IN YOUR EVERY DAY LIFE!
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A chronicle of my thoughts on grief, suicide, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Satanic Ritual Abuse, and some other bits that are actually light and very nearly funny
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Young people's mental health and social media news
from inside my head
adventures in a disturbed mind
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Living with multiplicity, and all that goes with that
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