Category Archives: dissociative identity disorder

Remembering Bugles

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bugles

Today I ate too many Bugles, the corn chip snack, not the instrument. Yesterday I was flitting through the grocery store on a quest for eggs when a sighting of Bugles stopped me in my tracks. Bugles have that effect on me. The last time they stopped me in my tracks was this past Christmas season. I was visiting my sister in Texas when we both spotted the tasty, nutritionally empty specimens at the same time. We looked at each other, and she spoke first, “Remember these? Bugles were the only snack that didn’t make me sick when we were kids.” In adulthood she would learn that she has celiac disease.

Her simple question, “Remember these?” caused my heart to jump because there are many times I cannot answer such a simple question. I have large memory gaps from childhood, and anytime I can actually answer a memory question from childhood I am pleasantly surprised much the same way that Buffalo Bills fans are surprised when the Bills are faring well. The moment I saw those Bugles on the shelf at the HEB grocery store I saw a snack size package of those buggers flying out of a vending machine at the community swimming pool where we took swimming lessons as kids. She would get Bugles, and I would get Boston Baked Beans, the brown candy-coated peanuts. I’ve always been a sucker for snacks with nuts. But that is all I remember about Bugles, that they were part of our post swimming lesson repast as kids.

When I find something I remember as a child I tend to overdo it in my quest to find answers. It’s like the Bugles could be a possible missing key that will unlock more memories that are unavailable to me. And there I was this afternoon with the bag of Bugles unopened on my counter. I thought to myself that I could use a small snack. I should have known better, these were Bugles after all. With every crunch I would close my eyes, and see if anything would come to me in the form of memories. Nothing. I would crunch them cone end first, then cone end down, to no avail. Nothing except an overconsumption of salt.

Whiteout

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It’s just like any other road trip that is expected to be uneventful. You get in the car, and all is calm without a hitch. Ten miles into your trip the snow starts falling in such innocuous flakes at first that they could almost be dandruff. Not to disappoint though, the snow picks up, and before you know it, it’s a big deal. It happened so incrementally that you initially did not panic, but you are now in that place where you know you cannot go back, you cannot pull over, you can only go forward ever so slowly. It’s that kind of situation where you know in your heart that at the end of this trip you will either reach your destination with the feeling of a victor finishing a grueling marathon, or you will meet your demise in your some horrible car accident that is the stuff of nightmares.

And that is the current state of affairs with DID integration.

Once I accepted the diagnosis it was a bit interesting at first, learning more about myself, figuring things out, etc. Discovering Letty was even a joy once I got passed the scared stage. Up until recently I had the idea that her purpose was to “keep a look out” for danger. The “keep a lookout” part was only half the story. The person she’s looking out for, apparently, is the other piece of the puzzle …

“He be comin’ back!”

“Who’s coming back, sweetie?”

“My Dad is comin’ back! He’s comin’ back! I wish everyone would stop sayin’ he’s not comin’ back! It’s mean!”

“Honey, no one is trying to be mean. It’s just that he’s very sick, and that is why he cannot come back to us. I know he wishes he could. We wish he could, but he can’t. Remember when I told you that he is addicted? That is a kind of sick.”

“But … but shouldn’t we go see him to tell him that we love him so he knows?”

“Oh honey, I wish we could. But it wouldn’t be good for us to try to do that.”

“You be like everybody else that tries to tell me to stop. I’m not gonna stop lookin’ for him. I not gonna stop …”

And she cries, and cries ,and cries. I am beyond exhausted.

Unrelated, or maybe it’s related, who knows … I’m taking an introduction to chemical dependency class for my own knowledge, and even reading the textbook gets Letty going.

Alcohol dependence is a progressive and fatal disease for those unable to exercise abstinence from alcohol.

“He be comin’ back!”

“Cirrhosis of the liver for those unable to stop drinking is an inevitable …”

“He comin’ back! You’ll see!”

Yep, I’m definitely in the midst of the whiteout.

James?

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Every year when the Oscars come around I remember that you would rent a tux for the Oscars party that you always had in your dorm room. We would cut the pizza into small square pieces to act as hors d’oeuvres for the evening. That particular year, 1996, you were crazy about Kevin Spacey’s run for Best Actor in The Usual Suspects.

I absolutely hate that I am not entirely sure that your name was James. I think it was, but I can’t be sure, especially since you were enamored with director James Cameron. So, you see, it’s entirely possible I can be mixing up your fandom for him as your name.

I have this thing called dissociative identity disorder, and my memories of my life are fleeting and incomplete, at times. The memory of you is one that I wish was more complete because when I think of you I always smile.

We were college debate team partners, but we never took it seriously. While we should have been learning more about both sides of the NAFTA debate I was listening to you lecture me on why James Cameron is brilliant (your point of view), or why the book Friday Night Lights should be a movie (It happened!). Your film lectures were far more interesting than our debate topics. Perhaps that’s why we never advanced or placed in any of the debate tournaments we entered.

Your part-time job was at the movie theatre, of course. But not just any movie theatre. You worked at the old movie theatre in town that was barely holding it together. They didn’t even have a modern ticketing system. You gave out red tickets for admission that resemble those red tickets you get in a 50/50 raffle. But you were so proud to work there. I loved how seriously you took your job there. You treated it as your first job in the film industry.

And then I met her. I met Kat, and you saw right through her. But I did not. I was in love, and I thought you did not get me. You tried to warn me, but, instead, I got mad. I felt misunderstood, and I moved out of the dorm so that I could be with Kat. You were right, after all. She was bad news. It only took me 10 years to figure it out.

What I’ve written here is all I remember about you. This is it. I know there’s more. I feel there’s more, but I am not aware of any other memories with you.

And now here I am, many years later thinking of you as I do every year when the Oscars come around. The Oscars are all I have left of you. I really loathe awards shows, but I watch the Oscars in the hope that you’re watching as well. It’s also the only way I can thank you for giving me an appreciation of quality film-making.

The worst of it is that I am not even sure of your first name, and you were the real friend in all of this.