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.

Safety is as Stupid Does

Maybelline taking a long nap after a walk.

I feel uneasy and unsettled, and a lot has to do with our session with Therapist.  The clock revealed only 30 minutes had elapsed, so I must have lost time in there.  I remember talking about Husband’s violent behavior and about how others cope who don’t cut, which I find interesting because the cutting isn’t what Therapist should be worried about.  Burning and my restrictive thoughts and behaviors should concern him more.  But with satisfaction I digress.  

Always looking for safe places.

So I’m supposed to blog about what would make me feel safe; what in my present life would make me feel safe.  

LOL.  I’m more likely to find the 8th World Wonder.

SAFETY: the condition of being protected from or unlikely to cause danger, risk, or injury. Security.

Ironically, what has made me feel the most unsafe is the only thing that can make me feel safe again.  Men.  I remember how safe Former Psychiatrist made me feel.  He spoke softly and tenderly to us.  He even allowed me to see how my poetry made him cry.  

Some have said they feel safe with Therapist.  I can’t say that.  I don’t feel he’s warm, soft, or caring, and that’s what we need.

Safety should be a one-way street.  There should be other things to make me feel safe.  But the truth is that what destroyed me is the only thing that can resurrect me.  

But in a perfect world, what would keep me safe?

I can’t answer that.  Nothing will or would.  I’m constantly aware of the dangers around me.  I wonder if you can be both.  Can you be aware of danger but be safe at the same time?

I have no concept of safety.  I’ve always wanted to feel taken care of and protected.  To the core and by the core, we’ve never felt safe.

This subject is bringing out my self-harm inclincations.

I hate this fucking topic of safety.  No where in the world is it safe.  Danger lies in everyone’s thoughts and behind everyone’s perverted fucking eyes.  

I don’t wanna write anymore.  

But we didn’t find the answers.  

Except for one: it’s not safe even inside.  

(There is a child talking to me with a British accent and I hear Victoria trying to calm her)

Why is she upset?   Is she upset because there’s no safety anywhere?

*Realization*

Words.  Words make Victoria feel safe, especially when she can artfully craft them and express them just how she wants them to be.  She’s protected by her words.  They are her defenses.

The rest of us don’t have one.

Writing, Therapy, and Flashbacks

I don’t feel like conspiring to write brilliantly.  I don’t want to care that the creativity has gone out of me like a candle in the wind.  I think I shall never write again because we are not in the blackouts of depression, despair, or constant self-damnation to write from the heart and soul again.

There’s a website I’m linking here called Writing Forward that has creative writing prompts, but I haven’t been doing them.  Maybe because I’m lazy, maybe because there’s no audience to which to write, maybe the prompts just don’t speak to me like writing about the dark side of life.  

But if I can’t write about things other than me and World War III, then what kind of writer am I?

Maybe I’m afraid.  Writing never comes easily anymore, and I think I’m afraid of failure.  Insert failure/success cliches.  

I bought a book for $4.00 full of creative writing exercises that I hope will inspire me. Perhaps this is a ghost I will always be pursuing.

____________________________________________________

So we met with Therapist 2x this week instead of the usual once-a-week session.  I think as a group we were in a better mood and there wasn’t such a self-imposed hurry or demand to get everything said and covered we could because we know there’s another session coming soon.  So I think we were more relaxed.  Today we exchanged first bumps, which is somewhat innocuous on the human “touch” scale.  

___________________________________________________

We had a flashback tonight.  I’m scared to think about it, but we can not let fear dictate which insiders we help and which ones we don’t .  What if the girl in the flashback is fleeing towards us? Are we going to close our minds to her and the help she needs?

I don’t know what you expect me to say.  

Nothing really.  I just think we need to be open to sights, sounds, and feelings and not abandon insiders.  Why so angry?

B L O C K

____________________________________________________

I'm sad. a teardrop falls in my hand.

Great Unrealistic Expectations

My dog Maybelline is stressing me.  She wants to go on a walk, and I just don’t have it in me to get off this couch, which makes me feel like a terrible pet partner.

Taken from today’s journal:

Been a busy day.  Service, errands, back pain.  The works.  I wish I could take a muscle relaxer right now, but I’m supposed to take Mabes for walk, and I can’t do that if I’m asleep.

Times and days are running together.  I find no support anywhere.  I was doing fine until Husband came home.  I was busy packing for our move, and when he came home we started to feel “off”.  Most would call that experience dissociation.  I don’t know what to call it anymore.  There is still the troubled argument of whether we accept the D.I.D. DX.  Tina gets very angry if we accept it.  But writing and talking just like this, isn’t that a sign of dissociation and of others?  This battle gets old.  I KNOW what’s wrong.  Tina’s doubts have left an imprint on us, but not a lasting imprint.  

*****I wonder if we’re making it up as we go *****

If you have D.I.D., but don’t acknowledge it, can you still improve anyway because the prescription of psychotherapy is still the same?  I hate whatever I’m going through right now.

So I was fine until Husband came home.  Then I felt “off” or dissociative.  I lasted as long as I could but broke down and took an anti-anxiety med.  It didn’t help much.  A muscle relaxer would help, but the timing is no good.  

So why do I feel “dissociative” when Husband comes home?  Probably because he’s so temperamental and to some degree I (and the littles if there really are any) am afraid of him, his moods, his headaches, his temper, his race -car driving.  I never know which Husband I’ll meet next.  So we get scared around him.  

If D.I.D. has lots of faces, shapes, and norms, why couldn’t mine be one?  I question whether I really hear voices of others or is it just my own voice.  I guess D.I.D. has been going on so long I have failed to recognize just . . . I don’t know what I was going to say.

What am I?  I just want to be sure I’m not lying or making a fool out of myself.  Mostly it seems too much to believe.  Bad things couldn’t have happened.  I had a happy childhood.  But, oh, how I hated Birth Parents.  And it can’t be denied that at least on a superficial level there was some abuse and neglect. I own that.

Good God.  *sigh* I think we want to see Therapist more than once a week.  What bullshit.  Some feel “close” to him and have a need for his attention, so they want to see him more often.  Little children who want to feel special.  Is that good or bad?  Does that give Therapist too much power and make us even more vulnerable?  Better yet, why need more attention now?  Has their source of attention dried?  Are they not receiving attention inside?  I doubt Tina, in her crisis, is up to showering them with love and attention.

For some reason, this journal entry feels accurate. I think it's because it feels like we're communicating.  It feels true to what is going on inside, and that is a cause for mourning: Mourning for the system that doesn’t feel like it used to feel, mourning for Tina who is not the same right now and is in crisis, mourning for those parts who require more attention and special feelings, mourning for those who aren’t getting their needs met by this ever-evolving system.  

I can feel Tina seeping her way through this journal entry.  I feel her sending her hate and anger to me, but that’s not all she’s sending. I sense from Tina some subtle undertones of helplessness and vulnerability.   I sense great fear in her . . . and great sorrow.  What a pity.  I almost don’t recognize her at all.

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.

Not As We

Nobody lives here anymore. Poke and stir the ashes of yesterday's consumption, you will not find me . . . and they have been missing for a while.

There were signs it was happening. My soul became painfully still and quiet. I couldn't locate myself in the expanding vacuum. I fell . . . lost with no identity, no way to get home. Voices often went missing in silence. Regardless of frantic searches, they were never recovered. Without their presence, I was perpetually absent. I did not realize how much I needed them until they were gone, and my fading shadow discovered it was too late.

With the only feeling the dead have, I grieve for my parts and how they once gave me life.

But I will rise from the ashes, only to be forced to die all over again tomorrow.

Just me, not as we.

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.

Glimpses and Misses

 

If you asked me what is wrong, I couldn’t tell you.  I would want to tell you, but I wouldn’t be able to.  I don’t know what is wrong; I only know something isn’t right.  I’ve been feeling this way off and on for two weeks.  The anxiety is palpable.  It comes in waves and crashes.  I become paralyzed, fearful, and teary. 

There have been a few times, such as tonight, when I could trace the anxiety to a member, or trace it other times when the anxiety comes at night when I’m waiting for sleep to find me.

I saw Psychiatrist recently.  He put me on an additional med, and I think it is helping with some of the depressive feelings I was having.  But nothing is helping with the anxiety. 

I’m losing time more.  I’ve lost all this afternoon.  I know “what” I did, because others have told me, but I do not have first-hand account of what took place.  The last thing I remember is running a race today and taking the subway back to our car.  I was with two other girls, and I remember thinking in my head “What if they really knew me” and I remember an off-balance feeling.  The next thing I know I’m at home seven hours later, reading a book, and wondering how I got there. 

It’s no wonder I’m switching given the amount of anxiety I feel.  But I am completely controlled by emotions of which I can’t call my own.  But I catch glimpses and it frightens me.  But I have a vague awareness someone feels so deeply empty and irreparable.  Even broken hearts continue to beat.

All the same, earlier tonight a movie came on tv that we used to watch when we were younger that would always evoke strong emotions from one of us.  Tonight, we were taken back to that exact age and started crying for no apparent reason.  It was  like déjà vu. 

While we can say there are one or two positive happenings in this, our life, there is still so much lacking.  And we are at the proverbial crossroads.  I am scared of what lies down both roads, both bends, and I am even more afraid to look.  Most especially, I am afraid it won’t even matter which path we choose; we will still end up in the same crazy place.

"Altered" sleeping

I’m a sad, sad moon. I feel like I’m on the outside looking in at myself, watching me from far away. Today has been one big struggle. I'm surprised how the comment at the gym is continuing to plague me. I’m not brooding over yesterday’s comment. I'm not dwelling on what was said to me. I’m not trying to be a drama queen or refuse to let the matter die down. But it has stirred up some ED thoughts that want to suck me back in, have me start restricting, and weigh X amount of pounds. It's just a continual fight. I want to get back to the place where I was starting to feel good about recovery and being proud of myself for my accomplishments.

Alas, I just can’t get happy about anything today. I can’t praise myself for eating according to my plan because I don’t believe that is cause for celebration. Intellectually I know it’s a good thing, but I wish someone would tell it to my heart.

Nevertheless, I did eat what I was supposed to eat.

I love how bright and cheery these colors on the plate are. For lunch it was a Morningstar Garden Veggie patty, avocado, vegetable chips, salad, and pineapple.

And in the salad we have Baby Spring Mix, tomatoes, carrots, spinach, celery, broccoli, and red bell pepper. All topped with a heavy little Italian dressing.

Last night when I was angry at the woman from the gym I received solace from a place I haven’t heard from in a while. I have a part that makes me sleepy when stress gets to be too much, and so last night I could feel her take over and make me sleepy. When I was in residential treatment there were two places in which this member would intervene regularly: during group therapy about s*xual healing and also in Residential Therapist’s office. I have no control over it when it happens, but I’m grateful for it. This “sleepy” member is like an anti-anxiety pill or a muscle relaxer. She soothes me into a dream that is so welcoming and peaceful . She shuts stress out by shutting me down.

Dinner: pizza on English muffins, salad (it's my fave!) and Oikos honey yogurt.

But then there are other times when I feel estranged from my members. For example, the littles seem to be hiding from me. Or maybe it is I who is hiding from them. I don’t know. I’ve put off letting them watch the cartoon version of 101 Dalmatians because I don’t know if I can handle it when they come out. I'm afraid there will be too much switching which will set off my migraines.Tonight I read them a book called Kiss Good Night, but there was no response from the littles or any other member of my system. (Maybe it's because the book was really boring.)

It was as if I read the book to myself; that's how much silence I encountered.

What about you? Do you have any alters that perform what some people would consider “weird” jobs? How do you nurture your littles? Does the presence of your alters ebb and flow?

All my freakin' parts

I’ve started this post a thousand times and have deleted every word that I typed. I just can’t formulate the right words or the right thought for that matter. There’s so much “quiet” noise inside my head that sanity gets drowned out. For two days I was feeling better. The switches were fewer; I didn’t have the bad headaches. I might have even felt calm for a second or two. I was really on a roll. But then there’s today. Rapid switches. Migraine headache. Pressure behind my eyes. Morning of lost time. Overwhelming anxiety.
I can’t really complain though. I’m afraid I’ll sabotage myself for saying this but Friday and Saturday were almost good days. I can’t ever recall a time when I felt something so close to happiness. I guess you take the good with the bad.
There is something that I’ve been ruminating over and wanted to write about, but I just haven’t known at what point we should get our feet wet. The topic is parts of a system. Not everyone in our system knows each other and it seems some of us may be more different than alike. Up to this point, all the parts I know are female, but it appears that one of the parts may be male.
Our first inkling of there being a male member was when we were journaling a while back. There was a switch in the system and when we searched out who it was the only information we received on the member was that the writing was that of a males. It’s even highlighted in the text what part was written by the male member. There have also been two very specific times in Therapist’s office when the presence of a male member was felt.
I guess I haven’t written about this yet because I didn’t want to believe it was true (still don’t.) I’m flat out scared to death by it. It is weird enough sharing a body with five year olds and ten year old and teenagers and college students; however, at least we’re the same gender. If it’s true that there is a male part in our system that would really freak me out because I don’t like men. Men are pigs. How the hell am I supposed to get along with a male member in this system?
So, what do you do? I know some people with DID have parts of different genders and some even have animal parts. How do you handle it?