I wrote this some time in the year I was 47, and here I am, life worse than before because I don't even have my disney job anymore. But I don't feel so hopeless today as I did then, for a number of reasons. The main one is having a terrific new therapist.
This is totally random thoughts about where I am right now. I want to start by saying I don’t think I am depressed. I’ve been depressed and when I am, I am unafraid and just want to do nothing. I don’t fear killing myself, I feel resigned to it. Right now I am afraid of those feelings. I fear my future. I hate the way living off my mom makes me feel. I don’t know what the fuck I want from my future. I do want to teach, but getting through the credential program, even just getting into it scares me. I love working at Disneyland, but I need to make more money. I finally wrote a resume. I need to get it to the job guy from rehab. I need to take chances and that scares me, I want to have a safe life hiding here in my home. I want to write and do my job at Disneyland and just be. I can’t just be because I torture myself with guilt. I live in so much guilt over everything. I know every relationship I have ever had, lovers, family friends, have all been fucked up by me and my insecurities and other weirdnesses.
I’ve been accused of crying wolf about the suicidal feelings. I am sorry it seems that way. The feelings are real and I don’t understand them. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to really be dead, I am just afraid of the life I am living. I don’t know how to change. I hear the advice of others and it all seems so simple and it isn’t. I feel like I have an impossible task ahead of me to overcome the fears, the pain, and the guilt. I hurt all of the time. I am in emotional pain and physical pain all of the time. I don’t know what to do about either one. Therapy doesn’t seem to help. Something that does help is trying to see those things I am good at, those things that are good about me. My past sucks. My family of origin was screwed up and it’s only as an adult that I have truly felt love from my parents. I thought they hated me when I was young. I thought I was the reason for every problem in my family, the truth is I still feel like I am the reason form all of the conflict in my family. And why, why do I cause the conflict? Why is it I stay in the bad feelings? Why do I seem to want to feel awful all of the time? I know my physical pain is wearing on me. It’s been 7 years since I hurt my back and it never gets any better. It’s so draining trying to function everyday when no matter what I do I hurt. I try to act like I don’t, but I do.
I never know what to talk about or how to act around other people. I say the wrong things, do the wrong things. I then replay all of the stupid shit I do over and over again hurting over it, embarrassed by it. I can’t let go of anything.
I’ve been waiting for some epiphany that will lift the fog and make everything clear. Looking for that shining moment when it all becomes clear and I change because I see the way it can be. That moment is not going to happen. I want a life changing defining moment. I want a light to go on and be able to see the path to change.
I keep looking to people outside of me to help me. I reach out because living in my head, in my pain, in my fear, I am immobilized. I see nothing but more of the same kind of failure that I have been so far in my life. I hate that I am 47 years old and have failed at making a living, failed at having a family, failed at so many things. I want support but I don’t think I know how to take it when it’s offered. I don’t see what some people do as support.
I am not writing. I just don’t sit down and make myself write something everyday. I sit at the computer a lot and stare at the keys and the blank screen looking for words to appear in my head.
I’m not depressed. I want to do something to change, when I’m depressed I don’t care. If I didn’t care I would not be reaching out for help. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be so scared.
One of the things I am tired of is beating me up for smoking. I smoke. I am not ready to quit. I know all of the risks and given all that I need to do to fix all of my other troubles I think smoking is the least of my worries. I need to get a handle on my insecurities, fears and guilts and not worry about the smoking. I’m also going to stop worrying about my weight. I’ve lost a lot of weight. I feel better, look better, this is all I need right now. I don’t need to be perfect.
I want to be better, get better. I’m tired of feeling like and acting like I am fucked up. I have accomplished some of the things I have set out to do, like getting my degree. I can finish what I start.
Where is my moment of clarity? When will it all become clear? Maybe it is already. I know where I go wrong. I have been told again and again how to change. I try for a little while and then I go right back to my old ways. I don’t know what happy feels like or how to hold on to it when I have it. I try too hard or not all. I know how to feel bad and I don’t know how to feel good. I’m always looking for outside things to make me feel good, love, sex, shopping, and I don’t look inside myself for the things I can feel good about or be proud of.
Just writing all of this is making me anxious. I feel like I am exposing myself. Maybe I want to feel bad and I want people to pity me. Why? I’ve known this for a long time and I don’t change it. I’m drowning in my own shit and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve tried thinking positively, but then I take that to an extreme and start hoping for things that aren’t going to happen. I take everything to an extreme. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why do I need so much attention? Why do I need so much validation?
Where do I belong? I want to belong.
I’ve been waiting, waiting for something to happen, but what? I think that the people things happen for go out and make them happen. I think I want some movie or story moment when all is set right.
I’m afraid. I afraid all of the time. I think people only say they like me. I feel like a fraud. I’m smart, I know how smart I am, but then I don’t. I think maybe I’m not as smart as people give me credit for. I learn easily when it comes to facts and certain ideas, if only life came with step by step instructions. I think that’s what I want therapy to be, step by step instructions. Tiny steps, things that build on other things.
I’m writing and writing and hoping that this writing will help me stir into some sort of action. Sometimes I wish I could just hide away in my house. I feel so frozen. I can’t explain all of the stupid fears I have. I want to be part of the world, and I don’t because the world I grew up in, and have lived in as an adult has been unkind to me in so many ways that are so hard to get over.
I want to be able to feel love from other people and I don’t even know if I know what that really feels like.
What does anything I have written here mean anyway? All I still know is I fear letting go because then I won’t care if I die. I fear being alone. I want something to stir me to change and I don’t know what that could be. I am afraid all of the time. I am tired of being afraid. I don’t know how not to be afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid to be well and afraid to be sick.
I don’t know what else to write. I sit here and the same damn things come into my head.
My friends make suggestions and I argue because I am afraid. I’m afraid to try to do the things they suggest. I’ve tried so many things and failed that it’s just easier sometimes to find reasons why nothing will work before I try anything. I want the suggestions again. I want to make a list and try, really try to do things that will work.
I feel so alone and yet I know that there are people out there who care about me. I get discouraged because it seems I am always the one to reach out, to try to keep a connection to the people who say they care. They don’t call me, write me, text me. I always seem to be reaching for them and then I think I must be inconveniencing them by interrupting their lives. They all seem so happy in their lives and have no need of me. I want to be needed I want someone to need me, need to talk to me the way I need others. I know my friends cant’ solve my problems I don’t want them to. I just want to know they are interested in me and in seeing me solve them myself. I want my friends to listen as I talk through the stuff. I know they aren’t therapists, but they all have life experience to share with me. I want to be a better listener.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dream Date
I wrote this so long ago, as if I knew I would feel this way today. 03/02/2010
Dream Date
Softness,
curves,
a woman.
I reach out,
she takes my hand.
We walk,
we love;
it’s slow,
it’s fast.
In these arms
I am home.
Maureen M. Huggins
1983
Dream Date
Softness,
curves,
a woman.
I reach out,
she takes my hand.
We walk,
we love;
it’s slow,
it’s fast.
In these arms
I am home.
Maureen M. Huggins
1983
I Don't Want to Jinx It
I don’t want to jinx it,
I don’t want to scare,
I don’t want to worry
about how much you care.
I just to hold you;
I just want to kiss you in the night.
I just want to be safe in the knowing
that this time it’s right.
I can’t say how much I am starting to care,
Because if I do, you’ll be gone for sure.
When do I tell you such a strange thing?
That times when you see me, it could be her?
How do I break that kind of news,
That there is more to me than me,
and people who have lives inside my head?
How will I know when the time will be
you won’t run away from what I’ve just said?
I don’t want to scare,
I don’t want to worry
about how much you care.
I just to hold you;
I just want to kiss you in the night.
I just want to be safe in the knowing
that this time it’s right.
I can’t say how much I am starting to care,
Because if I do, you’ll be gone for sure.
When do I tell you such a strange thing?
That times when you see me, it could be her?
How do I break that kind of news,
That there is more to me than me,
and people who have lives inside my head?
How will I know when the time will be
you won’t run away from what I’ve just said?
All My Love
All my love
All my love packed away in little boxes.
Saved for one day when Ms. Right would come along.
Stored unused, dusty, yellowed with age,
They sat so very long waiting for the "one."
Clumped to each other, pieces large and small, from the damp,
Dampness of tears shed over love that came and went,
Stunted in growth from lack of light and air.
All my love packed away in little boxes.
Dragged out and dumped at your feet,
Smelling of mildew, and mold, in damaged boxes.
Given to you in one big heap,
For you to sort through, looking for the salvageable;
You, Ms. Right, receiver of half-forgotten bits of love,
Must somehow breathe new life into the dying love.
All my love packed away in little boxes,
Labeled, "father," "mother," "brother," etc.
The box labeled, "lover," far, far back on the shelf.
Boxes long ago given up on, never filling, always draining.
Convinced, was I, that I would never use them again.
All my love packed away in little boxes.
You opened each one to see what it contained.
Handled each fragile bit with care,
Examined them in the light of your love,
Tossed out what was broken beyond repair,
Repaired all that you could with love of your own.
And after all you set aside as garbage,
I still need bigger boxes to hold all my love again.
All my love packed away in little boxes.
Saved for one day when Ms. Right would come along.
Stored unused, dusty, yellowed with age,
They sat so very long waiting for the "one."
Clumped to each other, pieces large and small, from the damp,
Dampness of tears shed over love that came and went,
Stunted in growth from lack of light and air.
All my love packed away in little boxes.
Dragged out and dumped at your feet,
Smelling of mildew, and mold, in damaged boxes.
Given to you in one big heap,
For you to sort through, looking for the salvageable;
You, Ms. Right, receiver of half-forgotten bits of love,
Must somehow breathe new life into the dying love.
All my love packed away in little boxes,
Labeled, "father," "mother," "brother," etc.
The box labeled, "lover," far, far back on the shelf.
Boxes long ago given up on, never filling, always draining.
Convinced, was I, that I would never use them again.
All my love packed away in little boxes.
You opened each one to see what it contained.
Handled each fragile bit with care,
Examined them in the light of your love,
Tossed out what was broken beyond repair,
Repaired all that you could with love of your own.
And after all you set aside as garbage,
I still need bigger boxes to hold all my love again.
Papa Sent You to Me
Papa Sent you to Me
Papa sent you to me.
Papa who promised
I would one day marry
In his backyard.
Papa who never cared
Who I married
As long as I was happy.
Papa who moved
Before it could happen.
No more a backyard
To marry in.
Papa who promised
Not to leave,
Until I found
The one who would stay.
Papa sent you to me.
Papa who lay
So long in the bed,
Stroked out,
Practically dead,
Holding on
To a promise he made
Years before.
Papa who I chose
To remember
The way he was,
Then they tricked me
And as I saw him
Lying there.
I leaned down
And whispered
So only he could hear,
“I let you out of the promise;
It’s time you went home.
I love you always,
In this life,
The last,
And the next.”
Papa sent you to me,
For whatever that means,
For however long,
It’s way more than right
That we belong!
Maureen M Huggins
03/02/2010
Papa sent you to me.
Papa who promised
I would one day marry
In his backyard.
Papa who never cared
Who I married
As long as I was happy.
Papa who moved
Before it could happen.
No more a backyard
To marry in.
Papa who promised
Not to leave,
Until I found
The one who would stay.
Papa sent you to me.
Papa who lay
So long in the bed,
Stroked out,
Practically dead,
Holding on
To a promise he made
Years before.
Papa who I chose
To remember
The way he was,
Then they tricked me
And as I saw him
Lying there.
I leaned down
And whispered
So only he could hear,
“I let you out of the promise;
It’s time you went home.
I love you always,
In this life,
The last,
And the next.”
Papa sent you to me,
For whatever that means,
For however long,
It’s way more than right
That we belong!
Maureen M Huggins
03/02/2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
DID Talk
I have been trying to figure out when I have switched personalities, what triggers them, why they come, how long they stay, and who might have seen them. Stress and fear trigger them. I know that the one I have been coconscious with always, Mikey, comes out for fun, but also when my body wants certain things, sexual things that I don’t need to discuss here. Mikey knows how to be there and still let me do the talking, so he is perhaps sucking my thumb, or curling up in a corner crying, or just losing it in laughter over things that are only marginally funny. He laughs a lot over silly things because he has the sense of humor of an 8 year old boy. Mikey talks like a much younger child because he has speech issues. But when I ride roller coasters, he laughs and laughs, he loves them. He turns his head and rides as if he is going backwards. He is the only one with enough guts to ride Splash Mountain. He can take the drop that I am terrified of. Mikey also comes out when I am completely comfortable, snuggled under a blanket, warm and safe, because this safety is something he loves. Some of you may have been around when Mikey is out and just thought I was screwing around talking like a baby. Or you may have ridden a roller coaster with me and heard me laugh and laugh, that’s Mikey.
I have another alter named Annette. She is triggered by stress. I guess I really don’t know what the trigger is so much as when she shows herself. Annette usually does my job interviews. She is the one who has interviewed me into jobs I am not really qualified for and that I have had to scramble to learn quickly. Annette is very self-assured, confident, put together. Annette really only comes up in job interviews or situations where she feels the need to show a very well adjusted, strong, confident woman. I know very little about her. I seldom am conscious of what she does or says, so I often have no idea what happened in job interviews. Annette also often takes exams for me when, and only when, I am completely nervous about them. She often takes over as I am about to speak in public, but she lets me do the public speaking, she just takes over as I wait for my turn.
Sian Barbara is the one who flirts. She flirts shamelessly. She flirts with men when I am drunk. She flirts with women when I am completely sober. She doesn’t actually show up much. She is very quiet for the most part.
MJ is a male alter full of anger and hate for those who have hurt me. He knows turns all of that hurt in on me. He cuts me, scratches me, basically self mutilates. MJ has road rage, and many of you have seen or heard him. He is often one to get out of the car and threaten people who get him angry when I am driving. He does things to me to try to let out the pain that I cannot stand to feel, but long to feel.
Patty is an alter who I know of, have seen in my mind very clearly, but she will not speak. Mikey has told me that she knows all of the math I was supposed to learn from 2nd to 4th grade. This explains why word problems puzzle me so; I should have been learning them then.
Reeny is Mikey’s twin. She stutters. I have no idea what triggers her or why or what triggers her. She will often show up just enough to make me stutter, then goes back deep inside. Excitement makes her stutter I think.
Gregory is around 17 or 18 and is able to drive. He is very laid back. He takes over when I suddenly realize I am behind the wheel of the car and have no clue where I am I or where I am going. I don’t know what triggers him. He’s hard to tell from me I think. I am not sure.
And the only other alter I am aware of is Jolene. I just found her by accident. She is a 50ish southern lady. She defends me, not afraid to get up in someone’s face.
That is all of the ones I know about now, but apparently, according to the number of people in my head trying to talk to me.
I know you don’t all believe me, and that is ok. I would like to say that being as most of these alters have been with me for years, protecting me, they are all adept at acting like me when need be. They answer to my name. They act like me, or switch back so that they are not known.
I have not been switching at all for the last couple of weeks. I am able to be coconscious with them now for the most part, but sometimes I still lose time occasionally. I was at Disneyland and lost pieces of the day, but the people I was with said I didn’t do anything crazy, just cracked up on coasters and a few other things. I think that the med they gave me to try to quiet them is working. They will come forward if asked. I am able to be aware that they are out. My therapist has brought these alters out and introduced me to them to me.
I still think that you are all confused, or angry, or disbelieving, so am I. I don’t know what to think. I am don’t know anything about this stuff other than DID people lose time, usually big chunks of time, I misses math and I lost moments, hours, never whole days or longer. I don’t want to be this way. But I dissociate most often in therapy sessions because any time we get to a subject I can’t handle talking about, one of them does it for me.
Some of you who believe, have seen, or are concerned want to know what to do if you encounter an alter. Establish who they are, ask, and then use their name if it doesn’t bother you to do so. I am told it is best to acknowledge who they are and make them feel safe. I am indeed trying to keep them inside in front of other people because I know that my friends don’t want to hear about it, see it, or know it.
I am very freaked out buy the whole thing. It explains some things for me, like feeling I am standing outside myself, doing or saying thing I would never do. It’s weird that they have conversations with each other. It’s weird to know there are others in there I haven’t met yet.
I have another alter named Annette. She is triggered by stress. I guess I really don’t know what the trigger is so much as when she shows herself. Annette usually does my job interviews. She is the one who has interviewed me into jobs I am not really qualified for and that I have had to scramble to learn quickly. Annette is very self-assured, confident, put together. Annette really only comes up in job interviews or situations where she feels the need to show a very well adjusted, strong, confident woman. I know very little about her. I seldom am conscious of what she does or says, so I often have no idea what happened in job interviews. Annette also often takes exams for me when, and only when, I am completely nervous about them. She often takes over as I am about to speak in public, but she lets me do the public speaking, she just takes over as I wait for my turn.
Sian Barbara is the one who flirts. She flirts shamelessly. She flirts with men when I am drunk. She flirts with women when I am completely sober. She doesn’t actually show up much. She is very quiet for the most part.
MJ is a male alter full of anger and hate for those who have hurt me. He knows turns all of that hurt in on me. He cuts me, scratches me, basically self mutilates. MJ has road rage, and many of you have seen or heard him. He is often one to get out of the car and threaten people who get him angry when I am driving. He does things to me to try to let out the pain that I cannot stand to feel, but long to feel.
Patty is an alter who I know of, have seen in my mind very clearly, but she will not speak. Mikey has told me that she knows all of the math I was supposed to learn from 2nd to 4th grade. This explains why word problems puzzle me so; I should have been learning them then.
Reeny is Mikey’s twin. She stutters. I have no idea what triggers her or why or what triggers her. She will often show up just enough to make me stutter, then goes back deep inside. Excitement makes her stutter I think.
Gregory is around 17 or 18 and is able to drive. He is very laid back. He takes over when I suddenly realize I am behind the wheel of the car and have no clue where I am I or where I am going. I don’t know what triggers him. He’s hard to tell from me I think. I am not sure.
And the only other alter I am aware of is Jolene. I just found her by accident. She is a 50ish southern lady. She defends me, not afraid to get up in someone’s face.
That is all of the ones I know about now, but apparently, according to the number of people in my head trying to talk to me.
I know you don’t all believe me, and that is ok. I would like to say that being as most of these alters have been with me for years, protecting me, they are all adept at acting like me when need be. They answer to my name. They act like me, or switch back so that they are not known.
I have not been switching at all for the last couple of weeks. I am able to be coconscious with them now for the most part, but sometimes I still lose time occasionally. I was at Disneyland and lost pieces of the day, but the people I was with said I didn’t do anything crazy, just cracked up on coasters and a few other things. I think that the med they gave me to try to quiet them is working. They will come forward if asked. I am able to be aware that they are out. My therapist has brought these alters out and introduced me to them to me.
I still think that you are all confused, or angry, or disbelieving, so am I. I don’t know what to think. I am don’t know anything about this stuff other than DID people lose time, usually big chunks of time, I misses math and I lost moments, hours, never whole days or longer. I don’t want to be this way. But I dissociate most often in therapy sessions because any time we get to a subject I can’t handle talking about, one of them does it for me.
Some of you who believe, have seen, or are concerned want to know what to do if you encounter an alter. Establish who they are, ask, and then use their name if it doesn’t bother you to do so. I am told it is best to acknowledge who they are and make them feel safe. I am indeed trying to keep them inside in front of other people because I know that my friends don’t want to hear about it, see it, or know it.
I am very freaked out buy the whole thing. It explains some things for me, like feeling I am standing outside myself, doing or saying thing I would never do. It’s weird that they have conversations with each other. It’s weird to know there are others in there I haven’t met yet.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
learning, teaching spark, and handle!
I am sure now that I am going to apply for grad school back at CSUDH where I got my BA. I am going to go for the rhetoric and composition degree. I base this on conversations with my old professor, family, friends, and lastly on an article someone posted a link to that said basically no one can teach one to write creatively. I am a writer, a creative writer, a liar if you will, creating make believe and putting complex feelings into the shortest most vivid images possible. I can go to a creative writing program, where they will fill my head with different formats for poems, and suggest ways out of writers block, but mostly I would be put in a workshop with other people who think they can write, and probably they can, and we would all tear each other’s writing apart, or be too polite to say anything constructive at all. Workshops only work if the people in them are equally talented and are willing to both build up and tear down. Workshops don’t really work. I did the workshop thing as an undergrad, bleh! I learned more from reading other people’s work, published people, than I ever learned from some person randomly assigned to me in a group who has a writing style completely different from my own. I learned more in community college creative writing by keeping a journal than I learned from the teacher. Keeping a journal made me aware that I can spend hours writing alone in a room. Being able to write alone in a room for 8 hours or more at a time is when you make writing an actual job. I write every day. I don’t write because I want to, I write because I must. There are too many ideas in my head and not enough hours in the day to put them all into words on a page (or screen.)
So I know I can write creatively, but I also know I can write critically. I did it to get my BA and I did it with honors. I started looking beyond literal meanings of words and stories in the sixth grade when a student teacher taught us Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach and made sure we knew that it was not a book about birds, but about people. It was not a novel as much as it was a philosophy. Richard Bach is often touted as a novelist, but his writings are philosophical and spiritual, and when looked at that way they become much more interesting. I digress. I know I can “lie” and make up stories. I know I can compress complex emotion into the simplest terms in my poetry. I know I can write critically. I am so very sure I can teach people to look past the literal meanings see of all the possibilities. I think one thing I want to teach is that it isn’t always what it means, but what it means to you that matters. No one really knows what an author or poet was thinking when she wrote something unless we are in her head, or we get to interview her. But then there is symbolism, and isn’t that fascinating, or motifs, and all of that other cool stuff that goes with critical reading.
I cannot believe I cannot begin to explain how excited I am to be getting back to school. I am excited at real challenges. Honestly I am not sure creative writing would have been the same kind of intellectual challenge for me. I plan to buy and read books on poetry writing, and to read other people’s short fiction, and creative non-fiction so that I can see for myself what is good, what isn’t, what fits my style, what doesn’t, where my talents lie, and where I fall short. In other words I plan to still get what education I can on how to creatively write on my own. I’m so freaking excited at the idea of classes and class discussions and arguments, not disagreements, arguments in the sense of debate.
Learning is so exciting! Why in the hell can’t I just make a living learning? But alas the closest I can get is teaching. I hope that in teaching I get to learn from my student’s ideas, their viewpoints, what they see and feel when they read. I hope that I have the talent and skills to pull these things from their heads. I really believe what Richard Bach says when he says, “Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you know it. Teaching is reminding others they know it as well as you. You are all learners, doers, and teachers.” He also says, “No one forces you to learn. You learn when you want to.” Teaching isn’t filling up an empty vessel it is pulling from the vessel what it doesn’t even know it contains. It is like everything they need to know is already in their heads, not the literature, but the insights, the ideas, the passion is in there simply waiting to be found and pulled out into the light. Seeing the light come on in a person’s face when she gets something for the first time, makes a connection to some concept she already knew, or sees something from a different point of view, a spectacular point of view where it had been a mundane view before, that is what makes teaching the most awesome thing in the world. Teaching isn’t teaching, it is making lights come on, it’s making connections, it is showing a new way to stack the blocks, arrange the letters, see, feel, smell, taste the world.
Right this moment I am seeing hope, seeing a future, feeling good. I don’t want to stop writing. I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to lose this. Tomorrow the darkness may be there again and nothing will make sense and voices will be telling me I’m stupid, or trying to remind of every time I ever embarrassed myself. Tomorrow I may be falling into the damn rabbit hole that is my insanity again. I don’t want to be crazy. I didn’t ask for this. If getting excited about learning and teaching can keep the black beast out of my damn head, then I need to focus on that excitement! Somehow I need that focus, that energy, that spark. I want more of what I have written here tonight. I have been writing all day, and I feel fantastic. I need to read. I need to reread Illusions, so inspiring me.
I wonder if college students would be interested in Richard Bach. I wonder if they would find the same inspirations, the same excitements I found on my first, second and fiftieth readings. There is so much in his writing to be inspired by. But then there is Salinger, and Lee, and so many other wonderful authors to find mysteries, inspirations, and insights in. I know I cannot teach Bach and only Bach, although I am sure I could write a paper on Jonathan Livingston Seagull that would actually be longer than the book is. There is so much in there. And Illusions, and the Messiah’s Handbook, companion piece to Illusions, I would never be finished teaching that book. I find new insights into life and into writing, and into spirituality every time I go back to those old friends. I put quotes from the Messiah’s Handbook on my Facebook every day, sometimes more than one a day.
Ah crap, I’m already losing the feeling. I am losing the flame the fire, the excitement already. NO, I will NOT lose this feeling. If I have to write it as a poem I will keep the fire. Teaching is an awesome thing. Teaching brings life and light to minds wandering in darkness, and the coolest part is they don’t know they are in the darkness. They don’t know until they read these books we assign, and we discuss them, and they find they do know the answers. I want to be able to move the desks in a circle every class so that there are no front or back rows. Everyone is part of the circle. I want every student to know that no idea is a bad or wrong idea. Insights can’t be right or wrong. Some insights might be off the mark in some people’s thinking, but right on for others, and all a student has to do to show off their insight is to show the rest of us in the text where they see what they see. If an idea can be supported by the text, if a student can make the argument with support, then it is a valid point, a true insight. That is where the lights come on.
I will soon be back in an atmosphere of learning. And soon after that I will be the one at the front of the room telling people to pull their desks into a circle. Soon I will be where I want to be, that is my future and that is where I will find my “handle” to hold on to, keeping me sane. I will hold on to learning, teaching and writing. I cannot die yet, I haven’t written all of my best stuff yet.
I am writing these entries to this blog in hopes that I can begin to know myself better, but also to let my friends know me. Funny how it seems the people I would most like to read my blog probably aren’t reading it anyway.
I have tried to let go, let my alters out to write, to see if they can write, if they write like me or totally differently. But I have also been put on a medication that is stifling them. Now this was the plan, quiet the cacophony in my head, keep the alters where I could be in control of the body and choose when they come and go. So far I have kept them out of my friend’s hair because it has been made clear to me that I am not believed. It has been made clear to me that I am not to allow them to contact my friends. But I am feeling stifled a bit too much. I need to let them out some time. I want to know them, know who I am talking to. Cindie seems to be able to pull them forward and I cannot.
Ok, it is time to try my hand at a little poetry. I haven’t written anything new in a few days. Some of what I write is such shit that it never makes it to the “save as” button, lol.
So I know I can write creatively, but I also know I can write critically. I did it to get my BA and I did it with honors. I started looking beyond literal meanings of words and stories in the sixth grade when a student teacher taught us Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach and made sure we knew that it was not a book about birds, but about people. It was not a novel as much as it was a philosophy. Richard Bach is often touted as a novelist, but his writings are philosophical and spiritual, and when looked at that way they become much more interesting. I digress. I know I can “lie” and make up stories. I know I can compress complex emotion into the simplest terms in my poetry. I know I can write critically. I am so very sure I can teach people to look past the literal meanings see of all the possibilities. I think one thing I want to teach is that it isn’t always what it means, but what it means to you that matters. No one really knows what an author or poet was thinking when she wrote something unless we are in her head, or we get to interview her. But then there is symbolism, and isn’t that fascinating, or motifs, and all of that other cool stuff that goes with critical reading.
I cannot believe I cannot begin to explain how excited I am to be getting back to school. I am excited at real challenges. Honestly I am not sure creative writing would have been the same kind of intellectual challenge for me. I plan to buy and read books on poetry writing, and to read other people’s short fiction, and creative non-fiction so that I can see for myself what is good, what isn’t, what fits my style, what doesn’t, where my talents lie, and where I fall short. In other words I plan to still get what education I can on how to creatively write on my own. I’m so freaking excited at the idea of classes and class discussions and arguments, not disagreements, arguments in the sense of debate.
Learning is so exciting! Why in the hell can’t I just make a living learning? But alas the closest I can get is teaching. I hope that in teaching I get to learn from my student’s ideas, their viewpoints, what they see and feel when they read. I hope that I have the talent and skills to pull these things from their heads. I really believe what Richard Bach says when he says, “Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you know it. Teaching is reminding others they know it as well as you. You are all learners, doers, and teachers.” He also says, “No one forces you to learn. You learn when you want to.” Teaching isn’t filling up an empty vessel it is pulling from the vessel what it doesn’t even know it contains. It is like everything they need to know is already in their heads, not the literature, but the insights, the ideas, the passion is in there simply waiting to be found and pulled out into the light. Seeing the light come on in a person’s face when she gets something for the first time, makes a connection to some concept she already knew, or sees something from a different point of view, a spectacular point of view where it had been a mundane view before, that is what makes teaching the most awesome thing in the world. Teaching isn’t teaching, it is making lights come on, it’s making connections, it is showing a new way to stack the blocks, arrange the letters, see, feel, smell, taste the world.
Right this moment I am seeing hope, seeing a future, feeling good. I don’t want to stop writing. I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to lose this. Tomorrow the darkness may be there again and nothing will make sense and voices will be telling me I’m stupid, or trying to remind of every time I ever embarrassed myself. Tomorrow I may be falling into the damn rabbit hole that is my insanity again. I don’t want to be crazy. I didn’t ask for this. If getting excited about learning and teaching can keep the black beast out of my damn head, then I need to focus on that excitement! Somehow I need that focus, that energy, that spark. I want more of what I have written here tonight. I have been writing all day, and I feel fantastic. I need to read. I need to reread Illusions, so inspiring me.
I wonder if college students would be interested in Richard Bach. I wonder if they would find the same inspirations, the same excitements I found on my first, second and fiftieth readings. There is so much in his writing to be inspired by. But then there is Salinger, and Lee, and so many other wonderful authors to find mysteries, inspirations, and insights in. I know I cannot teach Bach and only Bach, although I am sure I could write a paper on Jonathan Livingston Seagull that would actually be longer than the book is. There is so much in there. And Illusions, and the Messiah’s Handbook, companion piece to Illusions, I would never be finished teaching that book. I find new insights into life and into writing, and into spirituality every time I go back to those old friends. I put quotes from the Messiah’s Handbook on my Facebook every day, sometimes more than one a day.
Ah crap, I’m already losing the feeling. I am losing the flame the fire, the excitement already. NO, I will NOT lose this feeling. If I have to write it as a poem I will keep the fire. Teaching is an awesome thing. Teaching brings life and light to minds wandering in darkness, and the coolest part is they don’t know they are in the darkness. They don’t know until they read these books we assign, and we discuss them, and they find they do know the answers. I want to be able to move the desks in a circle every class so that there are no front or back rows. Everyone is part of the circle. I want every student to know that no idea is a bad or wrong idea. Insights can’t be right or wrong. Some insights might be off the mark in some people’s thinking, but right on for others, and all a student has to do to show off their insight is to show the rest of us in the text where they see what they see. If an idea can be supported by the text, if a student can make the argument with support, then it is a valid point, a true insight. That is where the lights come on.
I will soon be back in an atmosphere of learning. And soon after that I will be the one at the front of the room telling people to pull their desks into a circle. Soon I will be where I want to be, that is my future and that is where I will find my “handle” to hold on to, keeping me sane. I will hold on to learning, teaching and writing. I cannot die yet, I haven’t written all of my best stuff yet.
I am writing these entries to this blog in hopes that I can begin to know myself better, but also to let my friends know me. Funny how it seems the people I would most like to read my blog probably aren’t reading it anyway.
I have tried to let go, let my alters out to write, to see if they can write, if they write like me or totally differently. But I have also been put on a medication that is stifling them. Now this was the plan, quiet the cacophony in my head, keep the alters where I could be in control of the body and choose when they come and go. So far I have kept them out of my friend’s hair because it has been made clear to me that I am not believed. It has been made clear to me that I am not to allow them to contact my friends. But I am feeling stifled a bit too much. I need to let them out some time. I want to know them, know who I am talking to. Cindie seems to be able to pull them forward and I cannot.
Ok, it is time to try my hand at a little poetry. I haven’t written anything new in a few days. Some of what I write is such shit that it never makes it to the “save as” button, lol.
Monday, February 15, 2010
I Remember Papa
I remember Papa…
Warm Sunday afternoons,
Watching baseball on TV,
Me watching him.
Window full of sun,
Dust dancing on air,
Vin Scully’s voice droning on,
“It’s a beautiful day here at
Dodger Stadium…”
The game plays on.
I remember Pap’s lap…
Warm, Wide,
Safe at homeplate!
Yawning, I drift into the voice
and the sun,
Sleeping in the safety I feel there.
Waking on the sofa,
Sweaty, thumb in my mouth,
Pillow wet with drool,
Papa, did we win?
He was always there at waking.
Sun slanting lower in the window,
I remember Papa
On warm Sunday afternoons.
Warm Sunday afternoons,
Watching baseball on TV,
Me watching him.
Window full of sun,
Dust dancing on air,
Vin Scully’s voice droning on,
“It’s a beautiful day here at
Dodger Stadium…”
The game plays on.
I remember Pap’s lap…
Warm, Wide,
Safe at homeplate!
Yawning, I drift into the voice
and the sun,
Sleeping in the safety I feel there.
Waking on the sofa,
Sweaty, thumb in my mouth,
Pillow wet with drool,
Papa, did we win?
He was always there at waking.
Sun slanting lower in the window,
I remember Papa
On warm Sunday afternoons.
Just another Monday Stuck in bed
Today I got a great message from an old friend. She is also in recovery of a mental health issue. It gives me someone I can talk to who understands the viewpoint of one whose vision is distorted by mental health stuff. We really do see the world differently.
I know that I see the world through a glass that alternates between everything looking rosier than it is to everything being just awful. I know I have a lot of negativity, and that the negativity is what I generally show people, but it isn’t all of who I am or how I see the world.
For instance, love, I believe in it no matter how many times I try and fail. I believe that there is indeed someone out there who will love me for me and treat me the way I long to be treated without having to ask her to do it. I believe in the basic goodness of people. I believe that people want to connect, to love, to help one another. I think that some people think they are helping when they say things, and sometimes they unintentionally hurt.
I try not to hurt people, but sometimes I do. I am not always the person who is doing the hurting. My alters do a lot of things I wouldn’t do. I am not trying to escape responsibility for my mistakes, just explain that I never intentionally hurt people. I shouldn’t say never, I should say seldom.
So if you have been reading my blog and following what I have been considering, you should know that just because the dumbass county doctor sent me home, it does not mean that the darkness in my mind is any better. I have held myself together for two weeks while my nephew was here to avoid making his leave at home a crappy one. But I am still feeling like lights out would be better for everyone. I am tired of being the reason my family is torn up, or at least tired of being made to feel that way. I am trying to find a new thing to hold on to because my worry about hurting people by dying isn’t really helping anymore. I survived my brother’s suicide, others would recover from mine. So now I am holding on to this, I still have a lot of poetry in me. I still have a lot to say to the world. I still have a lot of writing to do. Maybe knowing I have not finished my mission here on Earth yet will keep me going.
I know I have laid out a lot of memories in this blog, but I have not talked about the holes in my memory. I have almost no memory of life before my parent’s divorced, just tiny bits and pieces and in most of them I am alone. I have a few bad memories, and a few good ones. One good memory stems from falling off a bike. My arm hurt like hell. I fell asleep on my father’s lap, crying. When I woke up he was trying to gently put me in the back seat of the car to take me to get an x-ray of my arm. My arm wasn’t hurting anymore. We went back in the house. He made me something to eat, got me clean clothes, and was very nurturing. I think the memories of being taken care of like that are awesome, but still there are more holes than memories in my life before the divorce.
I also lost time in school a lot. Teachers would think I was day dreaming and do things, like smack the back of my head, to get me to come back. I don’t know where I was. I only know that when I was there we were doing one subject, and when I was smacked awake, we were doing something different. But that isn’t really typical of my lost time. More often than not I would just come back to myself and have to fake it until I figured out where I was and what was going on. This has gone on for years; as recently as a few weeks ago. I still lose time, but now I know why and I don’t really try to cover. I just ask people what’s going on, what did I miss.
I fought the diagnosis of DID for about 20 years because most people lose big chunks of time, have had people notice their changes, and other things I haven’t had, but I do dissociate in therapy sessions. I also dissociate in certain social situations and become either very chatty or very quiet. I lose time in minutes or hours, not days and years. But if you factor in that I remember almost nothing until age 8, then I have indeed lost a large or several large chunks of time. I think people have seen me switch and not known that is what I was doing. My switches can mimic mood swings. I also fall into a character that is Southern and my friends will think I am just playing around. Here’s the deal, for a few years now I have believed I might be DID, but I haven’t wanted to be, so I don’t talk about it. I know; I talk about everything right? Wrong. There is so much people don’t know about me at all. I have started to be somewhat coconscious with a few of my alters, like I am standing outside myself watching these people doing things in my place. I have NEVER talked about this with anyone as might well imagine. People would think I was crazy of course. Well it turns out that I am indeed crazy.
I want to get back to what it is that keeps me holding on to this world, my writing, and my mind. I am going to get a masters degree. I was going to go for a creative writing degree, but now the composition and rhetoric. I was looking at private institutions rather than a CSU. Well now CSUDH is a possibility. They offer the advanced degree in comp and rhetoric and they have on campus housing. Given enough student loan money, I could afford to live on campus and get myself out of this living situation. My mom could stop having to sleep on the sofa. I can teach English at a community college with the masters. I may still find a way to pursue creative writing, but I think I am going for more safety than creative writing, or at least the possibility is on the table. I really want to do the creative writing thing. You know, do what you love, and the money will follow. But an old professor of mine, a mentor and voice of clarity for me in my semesters at CSUDH suggested this other route. Richard Bach says, “Shop for security at the price of happiness and you’ll buy it at that price.” Happiness would be following the dream of creative writing; security would be the composition and rhetoric. But going the safe route would possibly get me on campus housing and not so far from everyone that I want to be near.
I would love some feedback on the school thing. I am going to make my own decision, but I would like feedback.
I know that I see the world through a glass that alternates between everything looking rosier than it is to everything being just awful. I know I have a lot of negativity, and that the negativity is what I generally show people, but it isn’t all of who I am or how I see the world.
For instance, love, I believe in it no matter how many times I try and fail. I believe that there is indeed someone out there who will love me for me and treat me the way I long to be treated without having to ask her to do it. I believe in the basic goodness of people. I believe that people want to connect, to love, to help one another. I think that some people think they are helping when they say things, and sometimes they unintentionally hurt.
I try not to hurt people, but sometimes I do. I am not always the person who is doing the hurting. My alters do a lot of things I wouldn’t do. I am not trying to escape responsibility for my mistakes, just explain that I never intentionally hurt people. I shouldn’t say never, I should say seldom.
So if you have been reading my blog and following what I have been considering, you should know that just because the dumbass county doctor sent me home, it does not mean that the darkness in my mind is any better. I have held myself together for two weeks while my nephew was here to avoid making his leave at home a crappy one. But I am still feeling like lights out would be better for everyone. I am tired of being the reason my family is torn up, or at least tired of being made to feel that way. I am trying to find a new thing to hold on to because my worry about hurting people by dying isn’t really helping anymore. I survived my brother’s suicide, others would recover from mine. So now I am holding on to this, I still have a lot of poetry in me. I still have a lot to say to the world. I still have a lot of writing to do. Maybe knowing I have not finished my mission here on Earth yet will keep me going.
I know I have laid out a lot of memories in this blog, but I have not talked about the holes in my memory. I have almost no memory of life before my parent’s divorced, just tiny bits and pieces and in most of them I am alone. I have a few bad memories, and a few good ones. One good memory stems from falling off a bike. My arm hurt like hell. I fell asleep on my father’s lap, crying. When I woke up he was trying to gently put me in the back seat of the car to take me to get an x-ray of my arm. My arm wasn’t hurting anymore. We went back in the house. He made me something to eat, got me clean clothes, and was very nurturing. I think the memories of being taken care of like that are awesome, but still there are more holes than memories in my life before the divorce.
I also lost time in school a lot. Teachers would think I was day dreaming and do things, like smack the back of my head, to get me to come back. I don’t know where I was. I only know that when I was there we were doing one subject, and when I was smacked awake, we were doing something different. But that isn’t really typical of my lost time. More often than not I would just come back to myself and have to fake it until I figured out where I was and what was going on. This has gone on for years; as recently as a few weeks ago. I still lose time, but now I know why and I don’t really try to cover. I just ask people what’s going on, what did I miss.
I fought the diagnosis of DID for about 20 years because most people lose big chunks of time, have had people notice their changes, and other things I haven’t had, but I do dissociate in therapy sessions. I also dissociate in certain social situations and become either very chatty or very quiet. I lose time in minutes or hours, not days and years. But if you factor in that I remember almost nothing until age 8, then I have indeed lost a large or several large chunks of time. I think people have seen me switch and not known that is what I was doing. My switches can mimic mood swings. I also fall into a character that is Southern and my friends will think I am just playing around. Here’s the deal, for a few years now I have believed I might be DID, but I haven’t wanted to be, so I don’t talk about it. I know; I talk about everything right? Wrong. There is so much people don’t know about me at all. I have started to be somewhat coconscious with a few of my alters, like I am standing outside myself watching these people doing things in my place. I have NEVER talked about this with anyone as might well imagine. People would think I was crazy of course. Well it turns out that I am indeed crazy.
I want to get back to what it is that keeps me holding on to this world, my writing, and my mind. I am going to get a masters degree. I was going to go for a creative writing degree, but now the composition and rhetoric. I was looking at private institutions rather than a CSU. Well now CSUDH is a possibility. They offer the advanced degree in comp and rhetoric and they have on campus housing. Given enough student loan money, I could afford to live on campus and get myself out of this living situation. My mom could stop having to sleep on the sofa. I can teach English at a community college with the masters. I may still find a way to pursue creative writing, but I think I am going for more safety than creative writing, or at least the possibility is on the table. I really want to do the creative writing thing. You know, do what you love, and the money will follow. But an old professor of mine, a mentor and voice of clarity for me in my semesters at CSUDH suggested this other route. Richard Bach says, “Shop for security at the price of happiness and you’ll buy it at that price.” Happiness would be following the dream of creative writing; security would be the composition and rhetoric. But going the safe route would possibly get me on campus housing and not so far from everyone that I want to be near.
I would love some feedback on the school thing. I am going to make my own decision, but I would like feedback.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
When You Read This, You Will Know I wrote it for You
To the terrific person I wrote this for, I'm glad you have learned to let your heart come out to play, even though it wasn't with me.
Won’t you let your heart come out to play?
I don’t know the words,
I don’t know the tricks,
I haven’t got the keys,
to open that door.
Something jammed it tight.
The lock is rusty and full of crud.
I try the only key I’ve got,
insert love, hope and a prayer.
The door won’t open;
what’s really in there?
I don’t give up.
I’ll never quit,
you mean too much;
I can’t let it sit.
I know it’s hard.
I know you’ll fight.
I also know I’ll get in
because I know I’m right.
The pain is real,
the memory sharp.
Taking another look I think I see,
I can’t open the door.
It’s not up to me.
The knob’s on your side
and the lock is too.
If it’s ever to be opened,
it must be by you.
Won’t you please
let your heart come out to play?
The bad men are gone,
it’s safe,
you’re okay.
I wouldn’t lie,
There are dangers too.
Living inside keeps them away;
so does it keep love from coming to you.
There’s a well in your heart,
or maybe a dam.
The well is deep
and the rope too short.
The water at the bottom
is stagnating and still.
The dam is thick;
The walls are hard,
But it can’t hold on.
The water is filling it to the brim.
It’s open the gates
or learn to swim.
If it breaks, the rush will be great,
out with all the love
will come all the fear,
all the hate.
Open the gates,
ease the pressure behind,
let out a little,
it’ll be easier next time.
I didn’t put this hurt on you.
I can’t take it away as I’d like to do.
Won’t you let it come out to play?
I promise to be gentle and kind.
I’ll treat you well,
And soon you will find
being alive is not living hell.
I want to know you,
Please let me in.
If we’re to be friends,
it’s got to begin.
I think I am risking as much as you,
Afraid of hurt,
what else can I do?
I’ve tried it your way,
locking it up.
It causes more pain.
I almost gave up.
My heart was dying,
and taking me with.
I needed to change or just give in.
The dam broke open
and flooded my life.
The valley is gone,
a lake in its place.
The waters are choppy,
there’s spray on my face,
here it’s deep,
there it’s cold,
over here warm and safe,
it all depends on where you are in the lake.
I’m free now to float,
letting everything flow.
My body is light,
I let everything go.
To feel is to live,
to dance and sing.
I can’t go back.
It would hurt,
it would sting.
Won’t you please
let your heart come out and play?
I’ve said all I can,
no more can I say.
Please open the door,
or die all alone.
Won’t you let your heart come out to play?
I don’t know the words,
I don’t know the tricks,
I haven’t got the keys,
to open that door.
Something jammed it tight.
The lock is rusty and full of crud.
I try the only key I’ve got,
insert love, hope and a prayer.
The door won’t open;
what’s really in there?
I don’t give up.
I’ll never quit,
you mean too much;
I can’t let it sit.
I know it’s hard.
I know you’ll fight.
I also know I’ll get in
because I know I’m right.
The pain is real,
the memory sharp.
Taking another look I think I see,
I can’t open the door.
It’s not up to me.
The knob’s on your side
and the lock is too.
If it’s ever to be opened,
it must be by you.
Won’t you please
let your heart come out to play?
The bad men are gone,
it’s safe,
you’re okay.
I wouldn’t lie,
There are dangers too.
Living inside keeps them away;
so does it keep love from coming to you.
There’s a well in your heart,
or maybe a dam.
The well is deep
and the rope too short.
The water at the bottom
is stagnating and still.
The dam is thick;
The walls are hard,
But it can’t hold on.
The water is filling it to the brim.
It’s open the gates
or learn to swim.
If it breaks, the rush will be great,
out with all the love
will come all the fear,
all the hate.
Open the gates,
ease the pressure behind,
let out a little,
it’ll be easier next time.
I didn’t put this hurt on you.
I can’t take it away as I’d like to do.
Won’t you let it come out to play?
I promise to be gentle and kind.
I’ll treat you well,
And soon you will find
being alive is not living hell.
I want to know you,
Please let me in.
If we’re to be friends,
it’s got to begin.
I think I am risking as much as you,
Afraid of hurt,
what else can I do?
I’ve tried it your way,
locking it up.
It causes more pain.
I almost gave up.
My heart was dying,
and taking me with.
I needed to change or just give in.
The dam broke open
and flooded my life.
The valley is gone,
a lake in its place.
The waters are choppy,
there’s spray on my face,
here it’s deep,
there it’s cold,
over here warm and safe,
it all depends on where you are in the lake.
I’m free now to float,
letting everything flow.
My body is light,
I let everything go.
To feel is to live,
to dance and sing.
I can’t go back.
It would hurt,
it would sting.
Won’t you please
let your heart come out and play?
I’ve said all I can,
no more can I say.
Please open the door,
or die all alone.
To The Wonderful Young People In My Life
Why did you come into my life?
All light and air
Full of love
For me to poison
With rot and decay
Why did you come into my life?
Why are you here?
Don’t you know?
I am poison
I bring death and destruction
Depression and fear
Where ever I go
Why did you come into my life?
Surely not to be made sick
By the ugliness and slime
That fills my soul
And ruins my mind
So why?
Why did you come into my life?
And why now
When fear is so great
Depression so deep
I am unworthy
Of the love you bring
The light in your heart
Will become darkness
If you stay in my life
Why did you come into my life?
All light and air
Full of love
For me to poison
With rot and decay
Why did you come into my life?
Why are you here?
Don’t you know?
I am poison
I bring death and destruction
Depression and fear
Where ever I go
Why did you come into my life?
Surely not to be made sick
By the ugliness and slime
That fills my soul
And ruins my mind
So why?
Why did you come into my life?
And why now
When fear is so great
Depression so deep
I am unworthy
Of the love you bring
The light in your heart
Will become darkness
If you stay in my life
Why did you come into my life?
I Am Sick and Tired
I’m so tired. I am so tired of always being accused of being the drama in my home. I am so tired of always being told I lie, or I do things for attention sake. I am tired of people telling me what goes on in my head. I am tired of feeling like I am shit and the rest of the world is just fine. I am tired of feeling guilty for upsetting other people. I am just plain tired. I finally got tired of hiding who I am, who we are. I finally got tired of arguing with and lying to therapists and gave in to a diagnosis that I am now bloody fucking tired of defending to others.
Let me ask you all something, do you think this is the life I thought I was going to lead? Do you think that I dreamt my whole life of never being able to be completely self-sufficient? Do you think I wanted to be a lesbian, or childless or partnerless at this point in my life? Do you think I wanted men and boys to do the things they did? Do you think I wanted a mom who was absent when I needed her most in childhood, only to find her embedded in every aspect of my life as an adult? Do you think I wanted my relationships to fail? Maybe you think I want more than one voice, one person living in my fucking head. Do you really think I make this up for attention? I do a lot of things for attention, I cry, I talk too much, I try to be funny, but I don’t feign mental illness for attention. I would never disrespect the illnesses of others by faking one of my own. When you get migraines or get depressed, do people question your motives or the validity of your complaints? If I had multiple physical disabilities, would you question me then?
I am sick to death of people who know a little something about psychology deciding they know what is going on in my head better than I do. If I don’t know everything that goes on in my head, how in the hell can anyone else even begin to understand? If you have never seen me switch, or known that is what you are seeing, does that mean I never do it?
I have been the one in my family to tell the truth, and been called a liar for it. I have been the one in my family to know I am fucked up and seek help, and been criticized for it. I have dared to share family secrets, and caught hell for it. I dared to love my brother’s kids, and been accused of trying to steal them from him. I have needed my parents help, been honest about it, grateful for it, and accused of being a leech for it.
Let me tell you that I had a dream of being a writer, a lyricist, poet, and teacher. I had a dream of a life with a partner and raising a child of our own. I have had a dream of living alone somewhere in a little studio with my bed, TV, a computer, and of course at least one cat. I had dreams of being a good friend, a loved friend, a good person. I had a dream of weighing 150 pounds again. I have had and still have many dreams. But here is my reality, I am not self-sufficient. I am not living alone. I don’t have a partner or child of my own. I am not teaching college like I thought I would. I am not published. I have mental health issues. I have anxiety so bad it keeps me from holding a job for any decent length of time. I have flashbacks to nightmares that were real and didn’t happen when I was sleeping. I have nightmares that flashback to reality. I have trouble relating to people. I don’t know how to act socially. I don’t know how to feel it when people love me. I don’t know how to stay present during lovemaking. I can’t stop buying things for people I love. I can’t stop loving once I start. I can’t stop feeling like I need to fix everything for people. I can’t stop feeling like everything is my fault, even stuff that couldn’t possibly be, like oil spills and earthquakes. And I can’t stop resenting feeling like it’s my fault.
The world just isn’t the same for me as it is for other people. People are fond of telling me I can’t expect to be taken care of forever, well no shit! But I also can’t take care of myself very well. Left to my own devices with my meds, when the dark times come, I can’t trust myself not to just take every damn pill in every bottle. As a student I can keep track of assignments, read what I should, write and turn in on time my papers; but as an adult person I fuck up things like remembering to clean the cat box, or put food away, or wash my clothes. I remember to shower daily, but I think that is my OCD more than responsibility. I spend my money even when I know I have bills to pay and I do this because I went without things when I was young and I keep trying to fill that void.
Every minute of every day I am aware of what a failure I am as a human being. I know my family thinks of me as a failure. I have friends who see my application for disability as proof of my failure. I fail to know when and where to do or say things. I say the wrong things at the wrong times. I post things in public that people think should be private. I can’t speak in private of the things that I should be able to. I have known safety, total safety only once in my lifetime; and that was with a person, not a particular place. I still feel safe with that person because for some reason I know she will never hit me or yell at me or make me feel small. But I don’t get to be close to her anymore because I have used up all of her goodwill. She has come to my aid too many times. She and so many others, see my cries for help as the boy who cried wolf. Part of that would be my suicidal feelings that drive me to seek help at a hospital, but then my anxiety overrides the darkness and I need to be home, my home. So it looks like I am not serious about being suicidal. I go home and I want to suicide, but then how does that look? I go for help, and then do it anyway? The truth isn’t that my suicidal dark feelings aren’t as real as can be and as serious as death, it’s that I fear fucking it up and surviving brain damaged and I hate the idea of my father dealing with a second child dying in suicide.
I did not choose this life. I did not choose to be this fucked up. I can say a lot about it being my reaction to the events, and in some ways that is true, but the events sucked, there were horrifying, terrifying, and they weren’t only childhood. My tormentor has taken this into our 20’s. He beat me down over an argument I was jokingly having with my mother. And I’d like to see how others would react to the same suck as events; how many of them wouldn’t splinter into pieces, allowing alters to take some of the pain for them? How many would survive at all? At least I survived, in pieces, fucked up, disabled to a point of being unable to really take care of myself, but alive and high functioning enough to know I need help and getting it.
I have been raped, beaten, force fed, threatened, and all manner of other indignities. I have been thrown in dumpsters, had hot sauce poured in my eyes while sleeping. I have been hurt. I’ve been forced to watch one of my parents have sex with a stranger while so drunk there was no memory of it the next day for the parent. I have had my life threatened, my cat’s life, even my mom’s. I had a cat mysteriously die when I got us caught cutting school.
I don’t make up these things. Truly so many rotten things could not, should not happen in one family, but let me say that in this family, all of this and much more happened in my family. Somehow the word victim got imprinted on my face and everyone saw it, the school bullies, my brother, other older boys, strangers on the street, everyone saw it, even me. I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw a victim, a punching bag, a receptacle for unwanted bodily fluids.
I have no idea what goes on in your head. Maybe I didn’t get to know you well enough; I don’t know how your mind works. I ranted about my life, perhaps because I just needed to be seen heard and believed. I don’t know how your mind works, what your demons are, etc, but you also don’t live in my head. You don’t know really what I think or feel unless I want you to know it. I can hide, oh boy can I hide. I lived through years of abuse, hiding bruises and my own shame; do you think I can’t hide parts of me from you? I managed to hide sexual abuse, tears and bleeding from my mother; do you think I can’t hide myself from you?
I am applying for disability because I am truly unable to hold down a job right now. I am applying for any aid I can get to help get myself out of this living situation. I am going to finish my advanced degree because I want to believe what I have told others so many times, “Do what you love and the money will follow.” I love writing.
I reposted something on FB today that someone else wrote that had to do with why in the hell do we have to prove ourselves to you? Here is how I feel about it, you do not live in my head, you have not lived my life, you do not see the world through the same damn pair of cracked lenses that I do. You can’t prove or disprove the validity of my mental illness, my DID. I can’t prove to you that what I say is true. I don’t know that you don’t have alternate personalities in your head. I don’t live in your head and you don’t live in mine.
The damndest thing about everything I have written here is that none of the people who need to see it will because they won’t read my blog, too bad. Maybe someone else will copy and paste this someplace where it can and will be seen by the right people, but I don’t think that will happen either.
Let me ask you all something, do you think this is the life I thought I was going to lead? Do you think that I dreamt my whole life of never being able to be completely self-sufficient? Do you think I wanted to be a lesbian, or childless or partnerless at this point in my life? Do you think I wanted men and boys to do the things they did? Do you think I wanted a mom who was absent when I needed her most in childhood, only to find her embedded in every aspect of my life as an adult? Do you think I wanted my relationships to fail? Maybe you think I want more than one voice, one person living in my fucking head. Do you really think I make this up for attention? I do a lot of things for attention, I cry, I talk too much, I try to be funny, but I don’t feign mental illness for attention. I would never disrespect the illnesses of others by faking one of my own. When you get migraines or get depressed, do people question your motives or the validity of your complaints? If I had multiple physical disabilities, would you question me then?
I am sick to death of people who know a little something about psychology deciding they know what is going on in my head better than I do. If I don’t know everything that goes on in my head, how in the hell can anyone else even begin to understand? If you have never seen me switch, or known that is what you are seeing, does that mean I never do it?
I have been the one in my family to tell the truth, and been called a liar for it. I have been the one in my family to know I am fucked up and seek help, and been criticized for it. I have dared to share family secrets, and caught hell for it. I dared to love my brother’s kids, and been accused of trying to steal them from him. I have needed my parents help, been honest about it, grateful for it, and accused of being a leech for it.
Let me tell you that I had a dream of being a writer, a lyricist, poet, and teacher. I had a dream of a life with a partner and raising a child of our own. I have had a dream of living alone somewhere in a little studio with my bed, TV, a computer, and of course at least one cat. I had dreams of being a good friend, a loved friend, a good person. I had a dream of weighing 150 pounds again. I have had and still have many dreams. But here is my reality, I am not self-sufficient. I am not living alone. I don’t have a partner or child of my own. I am not teaching college like I thought I would. I am not published. I have mental health issues. I have anxiety so bad it keeps me from holding a job for any decent length of time. I have flashbacks to nightmares that were real and didn’t happen when I was sleeping. I have nightmares that flashback to reality. I have trouble relating to people. I don’t know how to act socially. I don’t know how to feel it when people love me. I don’t know how to stay present during lovemaking. I can’t stop buying things for people I love. I can’t stop loving once I start. I can’t stop feeling like I need to fix everything for people. I can’t stop feeling like everything is my fault, even stuff that couldn’t possibly be, like oil spills and earthquakes. And I can’t stop resenting feeling like it’s my fault.
The world just isn’t the same for me as it is for other people. People are fond of telling me I can’t expect to be taken care of forever, well no shit! But I also can’t take care of myself very well. Left to my own devices with my meds, when the dark times come, I can’t trust myself not to just take every damn pill in every bottle. As a student I can keep track of assignments, read what I should, write and turn in on time my papers; but as an adult person I fuck up things like remembering to clean the cat box, or put food away, or wash my clothes. I remember to shower daily, but I think that is my OCD more than responsibility. I spend my money even when I know I have bills to pay and I do this because I went without things when I was young and I keep trying to fill that void.
Every minute of every day I am aware of what a failure I am as a human being. I know my family thinks of me as a failure. I have friends who see my application for disability as proof of my failure. I fail to know when and where to do or say things. I say the wrong things at the wrong times. I post things in public that people think should be private. I can’t speak in private of the things that I should be able to. I have known safety, total safety only once in my lifetime; and that was with a person, not a particular place. I still feel safe with that person because for some reason I know she will never hit me or yell at me or make me feel small. But I don’t get to be close to her anymore because I have used up all of her goodwill. She has come to my aid too many times. She and so many others, see my cries for help as the boy who cried wolf. Part of that would be my suicidal feelings that drive me to seek help at a hospital, but then my anxiety overrides the darkness and I need to be home, my home. So it looks like I am not serious about being suicidal. I go home and I want to suicide, but then how does that look? I go for help, and then do it anyway? The truth isn’t that my suicidal dark feelings aren’t as real as can be and as serious as death, it’s that I fear fucking it up and surviving brain damaged and I hate the idea of my father dealing with a second child dying in suicide.
I did not choose this life. I did not choose to be this fucked up. I can say a lot about it being my reaction to the events, and in some ways that is true, but the events sucked, there were horrifying, terrifying, and they weren’t only childhood. My tormentor has taken this into our 20’s. He beat me down over an argument I was jokingly having with my mother. And I’d like to see how others would react to the same suck as events; how many of them wouldn’t splinter into pieces, allowing alters to take some of the pain for them? How many would survive at all? At least I survived, in pieces, fucked up, disabled to a point of being unable to really take care of myself, but alive and high functioning enough to know I need help and getting it.
I have been raped, beaten, force fed, threatened, and all manner of other indignities. I have been thrown in dumpsters, had hot sauce poured in my eyes while sleeping. I have been hurt. I’ve been forced to watch one of my parents have sex with a stranger while so drunk there was no memory of it the next day for the parent. I have had my life threatened, my cat’s life, even my mom’s. I had a cat mysteriously die when I got us caught cutting school.
I don’t make up these things. Truly so many rotten things could not, should not happen in one family, but let me say that in this family, all of this and much more happened in my family. Somehow the word victim got imprinted on my face and everyone saw it, the school bullies, my brother, other older boys, strangers on the street, everyone saw it, even me. I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw a victim, a punching bag, a receptacle for unwanted bodily fluids.
I have no idea what goes on in your head. Maybe I didn’t get to know you well enough; I don’t know how your mind works. I ranted about my life, perhaps because I just needed to be seen heard and believed. I don’t know how your mind works, what your demons are, etc, but you also don’t live in my head. You don’t know really what I think or feel unless I want you to know it. I can hide, oh boy can I hide. I lived through years of abuse, hiding bruises and my own shame; do you think I can’t hide parts of me from you? I managed to hide sexual abuse, tears and bleeding from my mother; do you think I can’t hide myself from you?
I am applying for disability because I am truly unable to hold down a job right now. I am applying for any aid I can get to help get myself out of this living situation. I am going to finish my advanced degree because I want to believe what I have told others so many times, “Do what you love and the money will follow.” I love writing.
I reposted something on FB today that someone else wrote that had to do with why in the hell do we have to prove ourselves to you? Here is how I feel about it, you do not live in my head, you have not lived my life, you do not see the world through the same damn pair of cracked lenses that I do. You can’t prove or disprove the validity of my mental illness, my DID. I can’t prove to you that what I say is true. I don’t know that you don’t have alternate personalities in your head. I don’t live in your head and you don’t live in mine.
The damndest thing about everything I have written here is that none of the people who need to see it will because they won’t read my blog, too bad. Maybe someone else will copy and paste this someplace where it can and will be seen by the right people, but I don’t think that will happen either.
Friday, February 12, 2010
How do I Help You Understand What I Cannot Myself
Do you know how it feels to always have a companion in your head? An alter ego that can deal with whatever you cannot. You know him; you can see him, talk to him, in your mind of course. You can let him take your body when things threaten you, and you feel safer because he is there. Do you know how that feels; I do.
I have always, as long as I can recall, had Mikey with me. He is 8, but he has always been with me, seen what I have seen read what I have read, and he is smart. The degree on my wall should have his name on it too. He read the books and wrote the papers with me. He did all of the playful theatre stuff. He’s 8 and he is 48, if that makes any sense.
Now I am finding out there are others, not always present, who don’t know everything I know. They do know every moment of pain, abuse, humiliation. Some of them know things I am missing, well they all do. Each holds some memory or memories of events I could not handle. Indeed this is why they came into being. These alters have taken my place during some of the worst, or that’s what I am told.
One alter, named Patty, took all of third and fourth grade math, but just the math. And here’s the kicker, she won’t tell me what she knows. I don’t know how to do word problems because she holds the keys to how they work. She knows and I don’t and it sucks.
So many pieces of my life are missing, and now that I have acknowledged that they are there, and have met a few of them, the rest want to come forward. They want to tell me everything about who they are and what they know. Some of them feel like I do, others feel differently. Some of them like the brother. Many of them have conflicting feelings. And what is so rough on me, causing me major headaches, is the talking all at once, the trying to force me to see them, acknowledge them right this second. I am not ready to meet all of them.
I am fearful that if I start to get to know them, they will start to pour out the memories of the events I wasn’t able to handle before and I still won’t be able to handle them.
I have lost little bits of time here and there all of my life. I cover well, something I had to learn to do because my family already called me stupid, I certainly didn’t want to give them more ammunition. Losing time is only one thing. Another is that I have had conversations in my head with people I seem to know well. I often find myself speaking with a Southern dialect I can’t shake. I see these people in my head, I know what they look like, sound like, but I never knew they were “real” in any sense of that word. I stutter sometimes. I do a lot of things that are out of character for me. I feel compelled to do certain things, go places, act in certain ways, and people think all of these behaviors are mine. For me it is like watching a movie, seeing it on a screen; I have no more control over what happens than I do over a movie. And there are the voices, not like schizophrenic voices, telling me to do things, they are just talking. They talk to each other, sometimes to me.
Since I was 28 three of my therapists suggested DID and I rejected it, but when this therapist, the fourth to say it showed me I had to give in and say yes, I have those feelings, those symptoms. The therapist that first suggested it got a Kleenex box thrown at her head and I got “fired” from therapy. The next therapist suggested the same thing. It seems that I actually dissociate during sessions.
So honestly, all of this craziness, this DID thing is completely new to me. I don’t know how it works, or why it happened to me and when. I don’t know a lot of things about it. I know that for me it explains a lot of mood swings and crazy behavior. It explains the voices I hear in my head, the time I lose, and other things. So what I do know is they are all supposed to be pieces of me that broke apart at times of stress and or trauma in my life. But I don’t understand the different genders, or ages. Some are older than I am now; others are young and never get any older. Mikey, the one that I have been coconscious with as long as I can remember, is always 8 years old. I don’t understand, so how do I begin to let others know how to understand? I thought he was just an imaginary playmate that I kept with me all these years.
I have always, as long as I can recall, had Mikey with me. He is 8, but he has always been with me, seen what I have seen read what I have read, and he is smart. The degree on my wall should have his name on it too. He read the books and wrote the papers with me. He did all of the playful theatre stuff. He’s 8 and he is 48, if that makes any sense.
Now I am finding out there are others, not always present, who don’t know everything I know. They do know every moment of pain, abuse, humiliation. Some of them know things I am missing, well they all do. Each holds some memory or memories of events I could not handle. Indeed this is why they came into being. These alters have taken my place during some of the worst, or that’s what I am told.
One alter, named Patty, took all of third and fourth grade math, but just the math. And here’s the kicker, she won’t tell me what she knows. I don’t know how to do word problems because she holds the keys to how they work. She knows and I don’t and it sucks.
So many pieces of my life are missing, and now that I have acknowledged that they are there, and have met a few of them, the rest want to come forward. They want to tell me everything about who they are and what they know. Some of them feel like I do, others feel differently. Some of them like the brother. Many of them have conflicting feelings. And what is so rough on me, causing me major headaches, is the talking all at once, the trying to force me to see them, acknowledge them right this second. I am not ready to meet all of them.
I am fearful that if I start to get to know them, they will start to pour out the memories of the events I wasn’t able to handle before and I still won’t be able to handle them.
I have lost little bits of time here and there all of my life. I cover well, something I had to learn to do because my family already called me stupid, I certainly didn’t want to give them more ammunition. Losing time is only one thing. Another is that I have had conversations in my head with people I seem to know well. I often find myself speaking with a Southern dialect I can’t shake. I see these people in my head, I know what they look like, sound like, but I never knew they were “real” in any sense of that word. I stutter sometimes. I do a lot of things that are out of character for me. I feel compelled to do certain things, go places, act in certain ways, and people think all of these behaviors are mine. For me it is like watching a movie, seeing it on a screen; I have no more control over what happens than I do over a movie. And there are the voices, not like schizophrenic voices, telling me to do things, they are just talking. They talk to each other, sometimes to me.
Since I was 28 three of my therapists suggested DID and I rejected it, but when this therapist, the fourth to say it showed me I had to give in and say yes, I have those feelings, those symptoms. The therapist that first suggested it got a Kleenex box thrown at her head and I got “fired” from therapy. The next therapist suggested the same thing. It seems that I actually dissociate during sessions.
So honestly, all of this craziness, this DID thing is completely new to me. I don’t know how it works, or why it happened to me and when. I don’t know a lot of things about it. I know that for me it explains a lot of mood swings and crazy behavior. It explains the voices I hear in my head, the time I lose, and other things. So what I do know is they are all supposed to be pieces of me that broke apart at times of stress and or trauma in my life. But I don’t understand the different genders, or ages. Some are older than I am now; others are young and never get any older. Mikey, the one that I have been coconscious with as long as I can remember, is always 8 years old. I don’t understand, so how do I begin to let others know how to understand? I thought he was just an imaginary playmate that I kept with me all these years.
Big Man
Big man!
Man of the house!
Or so you thought.
Hitting doesn’t make you a man.
Taking by force what isn’t yours,
Does not make you a man.
Dad left,
You thought you were
In charge;
Fool!
Captain of the ship
In your little mind.
You could not command
A turd floating in the john,
How could you command a family?
In charge;
A joke.
Who held mom’s hand
When she was falling apart?
Not you.
Who rode a bike to the bar
And drove her home,
Barely able to reach
The pedals?
Who didn’t resort to violence
To settle her problems?
Not you.
Who are you big man,
To think you could
Ever be in charge?
Big man,
Fists,
Intimidation,
Rape,
Abuse,
Big man?
Small mind,
Stuck on one thing,
The way Dad did it
Did you like belittlement?
Did you like the violence?
The yelling?
I did not.
I could not be like him,
But you,
Big man,
Little mind,
Copied the one
Who hurt and abused;
Why?
What did you get from exerting
Power over me?
What did you get?
Smaller!
That’s what you got.
Not bigger,
Smaller,
Stupider,
Meaner,
Never bigger!
Wasted talent,
Wasted intelligence,
Wasted time.
Big man!
2009
Man of the house!
Or so you thought.
Hitting doesn’t make you a man.
Taking by force what isn’t yours,
Does not make you a man.
Dad left,
You thought you were
In charge;
Fool!
Captain of the ship
In your little mind.
You could not command
A turd floating in the john,
How could you command a family?
In charge;
A joke.
Who held mom’s hand
When she was falling apart?
Not you.
Who rode a bike to the bar
And drove her home,
Barely able to reach
The pedals?
Who didn’t resort to violence
To settle her problems?
Not you.
Who are you big man,
To think you could
Ever be in charge?
Big man,
Fists,
Intimidation,
Rape,
Abuse,
Big man?
Small mind,
Stuck on one thing,
The way Dad did it
Did you like belittlement?
Did you like the violence?
The yelling?
I did not.
I could not be like him,
But you,
Big man,
Little mind,
Copied the one
Who hurt and abused;
Why?
What did you get from exerting
Power over me?
What did you get?
Smaller!
That’s what you got.
Not bigger,
Smaller,
Stupider,
Meaner,
Never bigger!
Wasted talent,
Wasted intelligence,
Wasted time.
Big man!
2009
Ode to a Burger (something fun for a change)
Have you ever eaten a classic Coco's Cheeseburger? This popped into my head after eating one. I hate burgers, and yet every time I go to Coco's I get one because they are the best burgers I have ever enjoyed.
Ode to a Burger
Oh Wonderful burger
all beefy, juicy, and hot,
dripping grease, sauce,
and gooey melted cheese.
Pillow soft bakery bun,
toasty tender frame,
sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Leafy lettuce languishing
luxuriously on top of
tomato red and ripe.
onion slices, thin and crispy,
and pickles,
what can I say about pickles?
Tart, tangy counterpoint
to sweet secret sauce.
oh wonderful cheeseburger,
my shirt wears you well.
Ode to a Burger
Oh Wonderful burger
all beefy, juicy, and hot,
dripping grease, sauce,
and gooey melted cheese.
Pillow soft bakery bun,
toasty tender frame,
sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Leafy lettuce languishing
luxuriously on top of
tomato red and ripe.
onion slices, thin and crispy,
and pickles,
what can I say about pickles?
Tart, tangy counterpoint
to sweet secret sauce.
oh wonderful cheeseburger,
my shirt wears you well.
Cutting Class
Sometimes when I start a poem I have no idea where it will take me or what memories will come up. I had no idea this one would jump from cuttng class in high school to a job i had soooo many years later. It's always a journey, maybe not always one I want to be on, but it is a journey.
Cutting Class
She was a freshman that year.
She went off campus with
Some friends from freshman choir.
They weren’t druggies.
Just kids cutting class.
Oh crap! Cops, run for it.
They were busted.
She knew they would call him,
And she was petrified.
What’s your name?
What’s your address?
“Please, I’ll do anything if you don’t call him.”
They didn’t listen.
Everyone’s parents were called.
He’s coming,
Repeated itself inside her head.
She was going to die of fright
before he got there.
There was a mix up.
They sent her back to school,
they never told him.
The anger would be doubled.
“I have got to get out of here,
Don’t you know? Can’t you see?”
No one could see, no one knew,
This hell was all her own.
He finally found her.
“Will you hit me?”
“I would brake your rotten neck!”
She was driving delivering auto parts
For a living when the memory came,
again.
The truck she was driving needed brakes.
She asked her boss, and thought it was no big deal.
The look in his eyes,
The same as in her dad’s
Cold, hard, deadly,
“I’d rather you died
Than spend money on that truck.”
She thought of her dad,
And flinched when her boss came near.
“Will he hit me?” “Ridiculous.”
Before she could explain,
She was fired.
Cutting Class
She was a freshman that year.
She went off campus with
Some friends from freshman choir.
They weren’t druggies.
Just kids cutting class.
Oh crap! Cops, run for it.
They were busted.
She knew they would call him,
And she was petrified.
What’s your name?
What’s your address?
“Please, I’ll do anything if you don’t call him.”
They didn’t listen.
Everyone’s parents were called.
He’s coming,
Repeated itself inside her head.
She was going to die of fright
before he got there.
There was a mix up.
They sent her back to school,
they never told him.
The anger would be doubled.
“I have got to get out of here,
Don’t you know? Can’t you see?”
No one could see, no one knew,
This hell was all her own.
He finally found her.
“Will you hit me?”
“I would brake your rotten neck!”
She was driving delivering auto parts
For a living when the memory came,
again.
The truck she was driving needed brakes.
She asked her boss, and thought it was no big deal.
The look in his eyes,
The same as in her dad’s
Cold, hard, deadly,
“I’d rather you died
Than spend money on that truck.”
She thought of her dad,
And flinched when her boss came near.
“Will he hit me?” “Ridiculous.”
Before she could explain,
She was fired.
Big Black Hole
Big black hole
Sucking wound
In my middle
Implosion eminent
why do I feel
why do I care
big black hole
sucking wound
in my middle
implosion eminent
will I ever feel okay again
will they ever go away
big black hole
sucking wound
in my middle
implosion eminent
what is anxiety
what is real
big black hole
sucking wound
in my middle
implosion eminent
Who really cares
Who even notices
Big black hole
Sucking wound
In my middle
Implosion eminent
Where are the memories
Where is my mind
Big black hole
Sucking wound
In my middle
Implosion eminent
Fear conquers all
Sucking wound
In my middle
Implosion eminent
why do I feel
why do I care
big black hole
sucking wound
in my middle
implosion eminent
will I ever feel okay again
will they ever go away
big black hole
sucking wound
in my middle
implosion eminent
what is anxiety
what is real
big black hole
sucking wound
in my middle
implosion eminent
Who really cares
Who even notices
Big black hole
Sucking wound
In my middle
Implosion eminent
Where are the memories
Where is my mind
Big black hole
Sucking wound
In my middle
Implosion eminent
Fear conquers all
Fence Sitting
The fence, stretched out for miles,
One side safety and all you have known,
The other a question unanswered as yet.
You sit on the fence
Looking this way and that.
Past on one side,
Sparkling and clear,
Future the other,
Shrouded, foggy, unseen.
Why do you sit?
Why not make a choice?
The fence isn’t life,
Sitting is just sitting.
It takes you nowhere.
Jump over the side,
Back into safety,
Out into unknown!
You must make a choice
Because if you don’t
You’re going to find
You die on the fence
A post permanently stuck up your ass.
One side safety and all you have known,
The other a question unanswered as yet.
You sit on the fence
Looking this way and that.
Past on one side,
Sparkling and clear,
Future the other,
Shrouded, foggy, unseen.
Why do you sit?
Why not make a choice?
The fence isn’t life,
Sitting is just sitting.
It takes you nowhere.
Jump over the side,
Back into safety,
Out into unknown!
You must make a choice
Because if you don’t
You’re going to find
You die on the fence
A post permanently stuck up your ass.
Survival Mode
Survival mode. I am more than a survivor, I am a thriver. I can be the confident me if I choose to be. I don’t want him under my skin and triggering me. I can be ok, it is possible, and I am going to choose to be ok, to be the best me I can be no matter who lives in my home.
There is a woman who feels like a girl living in fear and allowing others to have the power. I am not going to give him the power. He is an ass and he cannot hurt me now. I won’t be victim to him or anyone anymore. I am a poet, I am a fighter, I don’t give in, and I am walking forward one step at a time. I can be real, present and in control. I slept in my room last night and slept all night with no nightmares.
In group I feel safe to let myself go, and let out the fear and show the child frightened inside. But I don’t show that inner me outside of therapy.
I’ve always known my insides are fractured, not completely different people, but different me’s. I know which ones to pull to the front to get what I want. I use them to hide, masks that I wear, to be who anyone is expecting. In therapy I don’t have to wear a mask at all, but when I am home or in the outside world, I wear different ones and they work for me. I would like some day for the competent, confident me can be the one who takes over and skips out on having to use masks at all.
I use my poetry to let them out. There is safety in writing because the voice of the poem doesn’t have to be mine.
I do not remember writing or posting this blog. I am not a thriver. I am a survivor at best. I have to borrow energy from others to even be out of the house. I almost never go out alone and when I do, I get on the phone and try to find someone to chat with while i drive. Interesting indeed that this would show up like this now.
There is a woman who feels like a girl living in fear and allowing others to have the power. I am not going to give him the power. He is an ass and he cannot hurt me now. I won’t be victim to him or anyone anymore. I am a poet, I am a fighter, I don’t give in, and I am walking forward one step at a time. I can be real, present and in control. I slept in my room last night and slept all night with no nightmares.
In group I feel safe to let myself go, and let out the fear and show the child frightened inside. But I don’t show that inner me outside of therapy.
I’ve always known my insides are fractured, not completely different people, but different me’s. I know which ones to pull to the front to get what I want. I use them to hide, masks that I wear, to be who anyone is expecting. In therapy I don’t have to wear a mask at all, but when I am home or in the outside world, I wear different ones and they work for me. I would like some day for the competent, confident me can be the one who takes over and skips out on having to use masks at all.
I use my poetry to let them out. There is safety in writing because the voice of the poem doesn’t have to be mine.
I do not remember writing or posting this blog. I am not a thriver. I am a survivor at best. I have to borrow energy from others to even be out of the house. I almost never go out alone and when I do, I get on the phone and try to find someone to chat with while i drive. Interesting indeed that this would show up like this now.
This time Will Be Different
I wrote this after beginning therapy with the therapist I have now. Her Name is Cynthia Henrie and if you have lived through trauma, or just need a kick ass therapist, you should look her up. I am reading this little snippet and thinking this is before I gave away the secret of Mikey and Cindie called forward other alters. But even though I feel like it is going to take longer, I still believe I am going to get well. Every therapist I have ever had since I was 28 has been an intern and when an intern finishes their internship, guess what? They leave! So I end up starting over again. Cindie is a real therapist offering me real hope, giving me things to do to deal, to grow, to cope.
This time is different, and I know why, help isn’t dangled like a carrot, but given with care. I am feeling hopeful for the first time in my life. The past is going to finally be past, eventually. My future is wide open, so many choices ahead. I have some research to do, finding what I really want to be when I grow up. I’m up to the challenge. I will move forward and that is all new. I’m not afraid like I used to be, though not fearless for sure.
The idea that I have a future is so new. And my family, wonder of wonders is supporting me in my choices. Life radiates 360 degrees from where I stand and it’s all open to me.
I feel today like there is more good than bad in my life. Even with the weight of the girlfriend who won’t leave, and no job, no money, and lots I don’t have, there is still more that is good in my life than bad.
I sit here thinking of all that I have and I know it’s a lot. I’m lucky to have a roof, food, a car, gas, and help from family. I may be codependent with my mom and that will have to be taken care of in time. It’s good right now that she is helping me survive, but as soon as I find a job that pays well, it’s time to find a room to rent. I will find a school, and find lodging nearby. I will stand on my own, I’ve done it before. I’ve gotten comfortable here, settled in since my longest relationship ended. I know that the time to move on is quite near. I am looking forward to a space of my own.
This time is different, and I know why, help isn’t dangled like a carrot, but given with care. I am feeling hopeful for the first time in my life. The past is going to finally be past, eventually. My future is wide open, so many choices ahead. I have some research to do, finding what I really want to be when I grow up. I’m up to the challenge. I will move forward and that is all new. I’m not afraid like I used to be, though not fearless for sure.
The idea that I have a future is so new. And my family, wonder of wonders is supporting me in my choices. Life radiates 360 degrees from where I stand and it’s all open to me.
I feel today like there is more good than bad in my life. Even with the weight of the girlfriend who won’t leave, and no job, no money, and lots I don’t have, there is still more that is good in my life than bad.
I sit here thinking of all that I have and I know it’s a lot. I’m lucky to have a roof, food, a car, gas, and help from family. I may be codependent with my mom and that will have to be taken care of in time. It’s good right now that she is helping me survive, but as soon as I find a job that pays well, it’s time to find a room to rent. I will find a school, and find lodging nearby. I will stand on my own, I’ve done it before. I’ve gotten comfortable here, settled in since my longest relationship ended. I know that the time to move on is quite near. I am looking forward to a space of my own.
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