LIVING A MYSTERY

Maybelline snuggling up with my bear on a road trip.  

Worth Wondering.

WHO'S ON FIRST?

So my session with Therapist was interesting yesterday.  At one point he mentioned an alter, Tina, but she was already and participating in the session, but he didn't know it.  And I'm like, "Dude, don't you know after all these years who you talkin' to?"  Made me lose confidence that he really knows who we are and aren't.  Does he not know us by now?  You can't tell I'm in the room?  I HATE being talked about in 3rd person.

JOB TALK

We discussed things like obtaining my Masters degree for writing and also doing some tutoring on the side since I used to be a teacher.  I've decided to begin the arduous and probably disappointing process of using services from Vocational Rehabilitation.  If tutoring is something I consider pursuing, they would help me out by finding me jobs and places that are looking for tutors. 

THE BROKEN BRAIN

He also didn't give much merit to what was said about the mind losing energy with the smallest work and needs a nap frequently to reset.  He didn't understand what I meant when I said our brain was broken.  It's when much of your coping skills are gone.  When you revert back to the person you were before you made progress.  A broken brain is where every little task seems overwhelming and you almost feel child-like and can't do anything.  A broken brain is like being in a coma, able to hear and feel your surroundings, but unable to communicate anything from the bottom of the coma in which you are encased.  My brain broke in 2015 for good.  Since then, it's just about piecing moments and thoughts together to make a semblance of a life.

DISCUSSING CHILDHOOD

Therapist also wanted to talk about the happy times of childhood.  I shut that shit down fast.  I don't want to discuss any aspect of being a child.  If there were good times, I don't want to know about it. There is nothing worth remembering, nothing about being a child that I want any knowledge of. 

What are your thoughts?  

1)How do you hand your therapist talking to and about your parts?

2) Have you ever thought something inside you broke?

3)  Do you avoid talking about childhood altogether, or can you appreciate happy times if they existed?

GETTING BETTER: THE CONUDRUM

Maybelline learning to solve a puzzle for her treats.

Pieces Taken from Wednesday’s Journal Entry

Guess I’ve occupied myself well enough today.  Most of the depression lingering in my soul is dissipating.  Did some cleaning today and cooking.  Breaded pork loin chops, sauteed cabbage, and mashed potatoes were made.  Wasn’t too bad.  Better than the pigs in a blanket I failed at making yesterday.  

I’m listening to the same song on repeat called “Good Enough” by Sarah McLachlan, and she has two lines in it that hit me right in the heart.  She sings, “And I don’t understand; you deserve so much more than this.”  I wish someone would say that to me.

The Birth Parents didn’t really do anything growing up to help with self-esteem or mental health in general.  No kind words of appreciation or kudos for doing something really difficult.  I guess they were clueless.  Neither one of them is very emotional.  

So I see Therapist tomorrow.  What to talk about?  I never know because I don’t want to get better.  The thought of "growing up" and going out now, taking on responsibility and  being an adult is terrifying, and I don’t want it.  I don’t even want to try . . . again.  

Something in me likes staying at hiome, walking Maybelline, cooking dinner, grocery shopping.  I don’t want to give this up for an uncertain future.  And I know I will go back to my  maladaptive coping mechanisms.  

I’ve continued thinking seriously about a writing career and going back to school for my Masters in Professional Writing.  But as I was working on creative writing exercises today, one assignment was to write about a childhood memory.  Ummm?  No!  So a Masters program would likely have that assignment.  The creative exercise recommended writing about 1,500 words.  I squeaked out 150 words.  I decided to write on the time I almost drowned.  It’s a work in progress, and I feel at the mercy of my parts.

I haven’t blogged lately.  There are no words, no ideas.  Nothing I have to say. The depression flattens everything, especially my words. The only part I’ve connected to is Tina and her love (too strong a word) of cooking.  

With the depression, I would think Victoria would be around to say something.  Actually, I’m reminded she did write on Monday.  Oopsie.

Reflecting on why I continue to see Therapist: why do I still have sessions when I don’t want to get better?  I would answer that two-fold.  1) what if he’s my last hope?  What if I somehow, someway did want to get better?  What would I do without him? Seeing him is like insurance just in case I change my mind.  2) Attention.  Yes, we are that desperate.  We get attention from him.  Not as much as we would like.  He has no reaction to what we say.  He’s greatly in check of his emotions, and I think it’s appropriate most of the time, but not always.  Sometimes it’s good to show you can be human.

Goals.

Someone always has to mouth off, and maybe one day I'll love her for it.

THE COUP: ILLEGAL SEIZURE OF POWER

Maybelline sound asleep.  She loves her crate.  Makes her feel safe and secure.

I don’t know if I can write this post.  I feel extremely dissociative at this very moment despite taking my medication.

I don’t know why it’s important to write this, but last night’s experience was so bizarre, disruptive, and disturbing that I need to make sense of it.  

Last night wreaked havoc on me, and I’m not sure I can adequately give voice to it.  

I think something was triggered in our session with Therapist yesterday.  We came home, journaled, and then went to our place of worship.  I was so emotional through the services that I sat in my seat and cried.  When time was up, we had a congregation prayer, and it dawned on me my eyes were open during it.  Then I had a flashback to a time when I might have been eight years old, and I refused to close my eyes during prayer and hadn't been for a long while.  Closed eyes do not equal safety.  You must always keep your eyes open to remain vigilant and safe from people hurting you.  

When I remembered this, I began to dissociate and switch.  It was like the light switch was being turned off and on, off and on, over and over.  The switching was constant, and I had to leave quickly.  

Meanwhile, I came home around 9:30 pm and my lower extremities were in such pain, but I had no clue why.  I hadn't done anything differently to cause such pain. It baffled me, but I took pain medication that never worked.  I doubled the dosage and nothing even came close to alleviating the pain.  

Meantime, Husband left to go to bed around this time of 10:00, but I wasn’t sleepy so I stayed in the living room to catch up on social media, pay bills, etc.  But I kept noticing I couldn’t remembering what I was supposed to be doing.  I would start a task and then forget what I was supposed to do.  It felt like I was flitting from one thing to another, but I couldn’t make sense out of anything I was trying to accomplish.  

I can not overstate it when I say I couldn’t remember from one moment to the next.  It was like being in a dense, thick fog, and I couldn’t process anything.  I was confounded, but couldn’t untangle the mental mess.

I decided to take my night meds and go to bed, but the dissociation had other plans for me.  I wasn’t tired or sleepy despite taking sleeping pills.  

It honestly felt like someone was overriding my medication or it just didn’t affect them.  It never felt like true insomnia.  This felt totally different, like my members were just wide awake.  Almost manic but without the hyperactivity.  I was simply awake and not able to think clearly.

Hours later, I took a muscle relaxer and laid in bed feeling very strange and out of sorts

Sleep finally found me but in bits and pieces, tossing and turning.  

I’ve had insomnia frequently in life but never before did it feel like the hostile takeover of last night.

Today has been similiar.  I’ve been spacey, dissociative, and I have an unrelenting migraine.  

I write this experience because I’m trying to make sense of it, and I’m wondering if anyone reading this might have had a similiar experience because this was way out of the spectrum of normal for me.

ARE YOU SAFE?

Trigger Warning

YOU ARE NOT SAFE, NOT EVEN CLOSE.

I am quite uneasy; be still my nerves.  An unknown nagging feeling keeps jabbing at the back of my mind, worrying me, filling me with concern and disrupting my thoughts.  

I am supposed to write something for Therapist, but I don’t know if I have an accurate topic.  Something about finding a reason to give up cutting and restricting.  

I suppose this is in response to the fact that I’ve been cutting and joined a weight loss program that I am taking a little too far.

So I guess the question is why keep going back to old patterns that “don’t serve me well.”  

My response then questions why should I let go of "old patterns" such as cutting and restriction when they keep me safe.  Perhaps I am the fool or just engage in foolish behavior.  I own both.  But why give any self destructive behavior up when they serve the purpose of protecting us.  

I have an alcoholic part, but she doesn’t get out often.  But those that cut and restrict are doing so to protect us.  If we didn’t hurt ourselves, then wouldn’t others?  Maybe we’re just beating other people to the opportunity.

All I know is engaging in behaviors keeps me child-like, needy, requiring others to take care of us, make us safe, safe, safe.  It’s selfish, I know.  It’s almost manipulative to carry on hurting onself so others will be obligated to handle our life.  

For me, there is no safety.  I do not feel safe.  There have been brief moments of feeling almost, kind of safe with Therapist.  It doesn’t get lost on me that my long-term therapeutic relationships have been with men.  It’s also not lost on me, though highly ironic, that I was engaged to an abusive man with whom I felt safe.  

Maybelline sitting in my lap making it hard to write.

I’ve spent all of my life searching for safe places, from real and perceived monsters.  Searching for safe places for my minds.  What one part thinks is safe another doesn’t.  

So I just cut.  It feels good.  It’s not a desperate plea for others to notice, although we hope they do.  If others learn what we are doing, maybe they will save us from ourselves.

See, we’ve been on a weight-loss program, but we’ve taken it too far.  There are ways to get around recording what you’re eating.  And in addition, the calorie/point range is too low.  How do we know?  Dizzy spells.  Dizzy when standing.  Fatigue.  But we take our Adderall, get busy, skip lunch, and enjoy the thrill of winning that day.  And when we don’t win, we take a razor to our skin because that somehow makes it okay that we effed up our food that day.  And we keep it a secret until we can no longer stand it, and we hope someone will rescue us from ourselves.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.

And we are carted off to recovery facilities where they check appendages and other self-harm canvases, weigh us, check our vitals, and save us from ourselves.  But no more.  I will never go to another facility only to get a patch job.  

So what now?  How does one feel safe?  Does one ever feel safe?  When is it enough: to be safe from others or safe from ourselves?  Are those two even possible?

Secure, safe, protected, shielded, guarded, loved.  I don't know those words or connotations.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt loved in my life.  Never felt safe.  Never felt protected.

And when I hurt myself by cutting or restricting, that’s me saying, “I love you, and I will make sure you are safe and will be protected/looked after.”

And now that I’ve just made myself cry, I’m going to go make myself feel safe, loved, and protected.

Home of the Not-So Brave

It’s been two weeks since I’ve written.  In that time I’ve lost a dear father-in-law to death, moved from a nice home to a cramped, crappy apartment, had an exhausting moving sale where all I did was fight with Birth Mother, and have barely escaped foreclosure on my home.  I’ve had enough.

In the meantime I’ve discovered I’ve been doing it all wrong.  Dissociation and my approach to it.

If there really is dissociation, and I still deny it, I won’t ever heal.  I don’t know how to handle insider people or if I even want to acknowledge them.  Just assuming I dissociate, I don’t want a relationship with them or hold that connection  with them long enough to hear from them what their hurts are, their boo-boos, their traumas.

Even as I type this, I’m rushing.  I want so little to do with this idea of dissociation or blog posting or anything associated with it.

I think at one point I might have wanted that connection, but I’m not doing the work with them I once was.

It is all overwhelming and makes me angry.  There’s no comfort for anyone here.

I don’t know how to create inside safety for them or even me.  Why create safety?  I don’t understand things.

I don’t want to speak with insiders who may or may not be feeling the trauma.  No one is hurting, but how would I know when I refuse to spend time with them?

I don’t care if they are good people or bad people, I want stay away.  

I’m scared.

One article I read said to remove replications of the outside trauma on the inside bodies.  GTFOH.  The author said there might be dirt, blood, mud, or messy stuff on the inside bodies.  TBH, I know this is true, but I can’t get rid of it.

The effing article also said to give the injured insiders “lots of TLC”.  Maybe the reason I am so defiant against the idea of being dissociative is because I am so well disconnected from them.  

And I also don’t have the patience for this crap.

I thought I was at one time building a genuine rapport with my inside people and that there was honest communication.  I think it’s why I like my last post found here.  It felt like honest communication.     But it has evaporated.  It’s like I woke up and had to start all over again with them so I decided I didn’t want to.  

So I hate them and I hate me for hating them.  

I’m also scared.  I don’t think since the original diagnosis over 20 years ago have I made any progress.  Where does that leave me because I don’t want to do the work anyway, so I’ll be stuck here for another twenty years if I make it.

I just want my words back and if one of those bitches took them I’ll be pissed.

What if I don’t have it in me to get better - not better - but have an inclusive, relatively peaceful life?  

I keep failing.  I don’t know who’s really in inside because I’ve shut them out so long.  I know names on a map but not personalities, and I don’t have the fortitude to find out.  

I”m out of time, in more ways than one.

Protecting the Protector

I want to write, and I want to call out Sheila to discuss without emotion and bias what is happening regarding Tina, particularly and her denial of D.I.D.

I'll address my surmise of how Tina feels currently.  She wants to push the agenda that there is no dissociation because she feels out of the loop.  When was the last time she really had to defend and protect us?  Okay.  Besides the handshake incident.  Other than that, not too recently.

I predict her services will be needed again, but she's not used to being in the silent role.  She's used to taking action, not sitting back.  She feels unnecessary.  Everyone here has at least one job, and Tina's job has been to protect the system.  On behalf of Tina, there's been very little need from Tina to protect us.  She feels useless and unneeded.

Imagine how she might feel.  Instead of throwing up defenses to protect the system, in a way, she is the one who needs protection . . . from herself.  Without her anger, where and how does she get her power?  She doesn't.  And she wants in a way to send the whole system on its own by denying us, make us defenseless, so she can feel powerful again.  If she denies the existence of others inside, she gets back some portion of power because she can in a sense make them go away.

What Tina needs now, regardless if she believes we have D.I.D., is for us to rally around her, wipe away her tears, and above all let her know she's needed by us.

However, I don't know how to do the latter yet.  She's the only one who seems in crises.  How do you provoke or bring her out of her defenses?  It will be important to tell her how she defends us to some degree every day.  Whether it's getting our food right at a restaurant, a price right when shopping, or making sure we have good customer service.  She speaks her mind when it comes to getting what we need.  Thank her for that.

But there's another side.  If she has no one to protect, how can she lash out at Therapist and keep him in his place.  And we have to be the ones to let Therapist know what she needs and how she's feeling.  She won't speak loudly enough of her needs.  We must do that.

Tina believes, and perhaps rightly so, that she has a special relationship with Therapist.  I know she want to feel special.  We all want to feel that way, and that will be dealt with soon.  But for now, we must acknowledge the bond she feels toward Therapist.  She spoke up for us in the past.  It's our turn to speak up for her now.

We must remember that while Tina is a Protector, even she needs protection from herself.

In regards as to whether we dissociate, more discussion must take place.  It's true, the system has shifted, and I don't feel a strong awareness of what we're dealing with here and what the system needs and what the roles are now.  I feel the system needs to get to know each other again, if we truly dissociate.  I saw someone's handwriting recently belonging to a woman named Molly.  Is she new?  Are there others that are new?  We must be open to al possibilities and communicate more as a whole.

Conversations with my imagination

Saw Therapist again.  It was another wasted session where I refuted that I dissociate or have the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder.  To complicate matters more for me, he never came out and said, "Yes, you do have D.I.D." which gives me cause for hope and despair.  If we don't have D.I.D., then what is wrong with me?  I had a happy childhood.  Most of my memories growing up are good, though there are always some you wish you could leave behind and forget.  So now we are floating all adrift, don't know where we're going, how to get there, or what to do if we ever make it there.

Tina, I'm curious.  Why do you feel the need to deny it after all these years?

It's complicated.  I feel I am no longer needed, and if you don't need me I might as well disappear.    I don't know why I was around anyway.  Nobody needs anyone.  You seem to get along fine without my intervention and that makes me unneeded and invisible.  I feel like a damned lie.

Is that why you play games with Therapist, you feel if you keep messing with him he'll be interested in your well-being and you won't be invisible.

Don't play innocent with me.  Have I not done my job, and with no gratitude?  And have I not sat back and watched others embraced by warm, fuzzy feelings only for me to return to my coldness and anger?  Do you not all want attention?   I scan the room and find hearts that want Therapist's approval and attention just as much as me.  Almost all of you want his attention and want to feel special by him.  The littles look at Therapist like he's a father figure, and I'll be damned if we become a case of transference.  I know the Littles can't help it, but should I not protect them from the embarassment and rejection they will face?  And others just need to feel cared for.   So I'm here to protect you, though I feel I've fallen short, you don't need me, and I'm exhausted.  I just don't get myself.  There's proof I'm one way and there's proof I'm another.

It's not the first time you've denied we have D.I.D.  Why again this time?  Why now?

I'm fearful.  I wonder why no one else is.  It feels like something is going to blow up inside these walls.  I have not the imagination to know what it is.   It always turns into nothing, leading to disbelief.   How can someone ever get better with out knowing what's wrong with him or her?  How can Therapist effectively treat us when we don't know what to tell him?   I don't want to talk about this further for fuck's sake, but I will say that I get tired of being the angry, tall, aggressive, protective one. I've grown tired of being on the watch for everyone.   Just once, I wish someone would see I'm crying, scoop me up, carry me away, wipe my tears away, and tell me it will be okay . . .  the same way I did for them all these fucking years. I'm over it all.

Whispers Heard as Screams

I'm going on record declaring this complete bull shit.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't know what to say really.  I don't know what to feel either.

Maybe I am really okay, and it didn't hurt as badly as it seems.  Or, maybe I'm covering up the greatest pain we've ever known throughout the gift of numbness.

I'm sure I am being dramatic.  It's true; I'm not crying.  No, I'm not overly anxious.  Surely there is nothing wrong.

I mean, what damage has been done? 

Maybe the lack of feelings are because the damage is more intellectual, more cerebral.  Emotionally it's no big deal, but in my head and my thoughts I know I have been betrayed by others, and I have also betrayed myself, and by extension . . . .  Shhh.  The wind whispers:  dirty, unclean, contaminated.

You may address me as "Whore."

I may never whisper again. 

I know why you whisper, and I am sorry.  I know who you are, little one.  You are someone who doesn't want to be here anymore.  I don't blame you.  But why don't you want to be here? 

People will see my dirtiness.  Some put on an act that they enjoy it.  Maybe that is why she is confused.  What she knows and what she feels are at war with one another, and I am collateral damage.  Someone is always sacrificed. 

I sense you staring into space.  Where are you going in your mind?

Escape while I can.  Things are calm for now, but soon it will either be complete anxiety or a crushing depression that will descend upon you, and I can't survive another blow tonight.

Did you take over with Daniel?

I took over afterwards when no one else would, just like back then.

Boom!

It’s not that easy.  It’s not that easy.  It’s not that easy.

I will not make it this time.  I am burrowing a hole for myself, digging my own grave.  Only this time, people in my professional life are handing me the shovel and watching me sink. 

I’ve discovered my problem . . . at least one of them.  I hate myself.  Sounds simple, doesn’t it?  I should just stop it then, shouldn’t I?  I should stop hating myself.

It’s not that easy.

The roots of my hatred extend beyond time, and no amount of remediation will allow me to transcend the wickedness I deserve.

Oh, if you only knew how it rocks me . . . devastates me.  I am good for nothing . . .but I wish I were good for something more . . . more than abuse.

I try as hard, as hard, as hard as I can, and it still isn’t good enough.  I still at the end of the day am me: profoundly defective.

And damn it to hell if no one believes me.  I KNOW it.  I LIVE it every day.  And I’m tired of suffering.  I’m so, so tired of suffering.  God be with me, I’m so tired of suffering.

It’s so bad.  I really can’t take it anymore.  I can’t continue to hold on by the web of a spider. 

It’s such a heavy, magnificent weight that rests on my back.  And I’m plunging to the bottom and I implore you not hold me back.  Let me sink.  Let me die.  Let me not know this misery anymore. 

There are no happy songs in my head.  No hopeful words exist. No suggestions or subliminal messages you give me to pretend everything will work out.

It’ so, so over.

I can’t believe it when you tell me I’m good, and you won’t believe me when I tell you I’m bad.

Oh my god, I need a hug . . . and a bullet. 

Boom!

Postmortem Revival

She has returned . . . a former, archaic version of myself that I had ignorantly believed I would never need again. Her revival has not been so subtle, and she has reprised her role as the destructor of my life, the tamer of hope, and the inventor of all necessity to be alone.

She brings with her every negative thought she has collected over this life, constantly reminding me of my baseness and worthlessness. And I, needing her to get me through every elongated second, believe every nasty comment she purports about me. Because God knows every time I've ever had a positive thought about myself it has been burned to ash by someone else's reality.

The promise of hope is lost. Every cut, every purge, every drink, every missed meal bears her fingerprints and her assurance that only she can bring comfort.

I know the significance of her resurrection. Coming back to life will lead to my death. But I've been living dead too long to count now, and I don't mind letting go. In fact, I've asked for it, which is why she's come.

I do not have the luxury of turning her away this time. I can't do this on my own, and I have no one else to scatter away the tears that collect daily on my face.

And there is nothing anyone can do to help me. No amount of attention, intervention, or abandonment can affect me. I am in this alone, as I've always been.  If I don't bow out of life now, I will be expelled out later, and there is no coming back in anyone's space from that. There will not even be a shadow of a woman to trace through the day.

I would like to confess it doesn't hurt anymore, but, in truth, it isn't decent how deeply I ache.

I wear wounds that would give you nightmares.

The Hostage

Hostage

Slowly the evening falls upon me.

The possibility of peace is shattered into a fairy tale as

the night struggles and collapses into the blackest hole.

With her naked eye the moon stalks me into hiding.

No light is spared.

I hear the footsteps of my thoughts scatter inside my mind,

running rampant, tunneling through the darkness until I'm found

crouched in fear.

A tightly woven web of chaos is assembled around me.

Motionless, I sit under the glare of tyranny.

With unbridled abandon they advance upon me:

Closer. Closer. Closer.

The moment is surrendered to madness.

History threatens the illusion of control.

My entire armor sheds in defeat.

Sanity becomes a desperate bargain,

a violent negotiation between the authorities of life and death.

My mind holds me hostage.

Little by little, piece by piece,

I am completely swallowed,

but no one can tell that I am missing.

Just another label

The time since March I spent away from the blog was generally a happy time.  I finished school, obtained a job, and have spent the last four months enjoying my time at my work. 

Apart from work, things are falling.  There are still issues around intimacy I can not escape, and every time I go through these issues I recreate the traumatizing experiences all over again.  And I’m to blame.  Tonight was no different.  And because of my self-inflicted actions earlier, I have lost myself inside my mind.  I can’t tell where I am and who is there.

During our last session with Therapist there was something we wanted to say to him but the gatekeeper was stationed and the thoughts couldn’t crawl around the wall.  I felt so frustrated and angry.  I didn’t know what the thought was but I knew we needed some type of support from Therapist for which couldn’t be asked. 

Almost as soon as we got to the car and it was safe, I realized what needed to be said.  The discussion in our session touched on abuse and that’s when the feelings came up to say something to Therapist and get support.  When we got to the car the littles were upset and had said they wanted a hug from Therapist. 

I don’t know how I feel about this.  Since we’ve been discussing issues of intimacy, there has been more trust developing for now.  And the adult in me thinks it is brave that they would want a hug.  I think they deserve a hug. 

The adult me also thinks it might be precarious and bad boundaries to ask for a hug.  What would he think?  Would we regret it?  I believe and hope the littles would feel safe and receive the support needed.  Therapist is the only that believes them and I fear they might look to him like a father-figure.

I am sure there is a nice, tidy, demeaning psychological label such as transference to explain what is happening.  I loathe the idea that our feelings our reduced to psychological jargon.

I have compassion for the littles and will do everything ever possible to keep them safe and sound.

 I close this with the feeling once again that feel so much more, but said a lot of nothing.

I think I'm just dead.