I Woke Up

A New Life

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 14:10:12 -0400

To those of you who found and followed this blog via Twitter, thank you for your interest, concern, and supportive messages. My life underwent a fundamental change on March 10 when my little brother committed suicide. It would take the greatest tragedy I have known to be the turning point for moving forward, and that is exactly what has happened. I have taken my blogging to a private blog as I will no longer write anonymously. Know that I confronted my family and named every secret…I fulfilled a promise I made to my brother a long time ago. I will no longer keep secrets.

Daily life continues to be a challenge and very hard work, but I am making it. My burden is both greater and lighter after the loss of my brother. Strength to all of you who live with DID as well. You are not alone…do NOT give up…the world truly is full of love.

I Remember

Wed, 07 Mar 2012 18:44:10 -0500

I remember floating away from my own body. And I remember how I can dissociate from pain.

I remember the smell of alcohol on his breath. And I remember why I am triggered by signs of alcohol abuse.

I remember him pushing my hands out in front of me by my wrists. And I remember seeing myself do this with my hands when I painted.

I remember being so confused. And I remember why being confused by peoples’ behavior now can frighten me.

I remember staying silent because I knew I had to or I would be hurt even worse. And I remember why I can tolerate intense pain without ever even changing my facial expression or making a sound.

I remember his breath on my cheek. And I remember why my skin crawls sometimes.

I remember his facial stubble on my skin. And I remember why I don’t like facial hair.

I remember being pinned down. And I remember why I despise and voraciously fight any feeling of being trapped.

I remember a man on my back. And I remember why I couldn’t tolerate listening to Tori’s song for over 15 years.

I remember how scary he looked to me. And I remember why I react to fear with aggression.

I remember him telling me I was so pretty. And I remember why I am sometimes revulsed at hearing that today.

I remember believing this didn’t happen to boys and wishing I weren’t a girl. And I remember why I sometimes feel more like a man than a woman.

I remember him kissing my hair. And I remember why I simultaneously crave & fear physical affection.

I remember feeling helpless. And I remember why I rage.

I remember feeling completely alone. And I remember why I have wanted to kill myself.

I remember the terror of believing that if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would kill me. And I remember why I live with so much fear encapsulated within me.

I remember him telling me I was getting fat, and knowing that if I got too fat, he would probably beat me instead of rape me. And I remember why I have an eating disorder.

I remember him whispering “I love you” in my ear. And I remember why LOVE IS PAIN.

One Year

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:35:28 -0500

A year ago today, I realized I have DID. I have had a migraine since yesterday and missed work today as a result. I haven’t been able to do much reflection because my head feels so foggy…perhaps it needs to be this way. I slept almost all day today.

I have much to write about to catch up…more integration, new parts, etc. For today, I feel slowed down and weighted down out of necessity. I hope to feel like my strong and happier self again tomorrow.

Triggered

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 22:20:00 -0500

So, after writing that last post, I sensed that something got triggered and noticed myself feeling anxious. When I started breathing harder, I decided to check my heart rate. I’ve been sitting comfortably in a reclined position for over an hour.

Resting heart rate right now? 105 BPM.

The experience of a resting heart rate at 105 is quite physically uncomfortable, FYI. I can feel my heart beating in my chest and through my sides. I have some internal work to do now.

Pieces

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 21:58:37 -0500

In my much younger years of writing, themes of ‘broken pieces’ littered my books. It is astonishing to me when I stumble upon such old writing that, even though I didn’t know what was going on, I knew.

I relived a new memory in therapy this week, and for the first time, I re-experienced not only the body memory of terror, panic, and pain, but also experienced the visual memory simultaneously. I have experienced flashbacks in body memories for as long as I can remember. The other pieces of those memories were splintered off and filed away in other parts of my brain not accessible to my conscious awareness. I remember in my early days of training in the mental health field that I wasn’t even sure I believed in such a concept…suppressed memories and the like. Well, fuck. I don’t need any goddamn research because I fucking live it. Much like integrating a part, I can’t really describe what it’s like to see fractured pieces of memories coming together. The visual memory was like looking through a pair of binoculars and watching the view slowly come into focus. I thought I could see what was happening, and then I could actually start to see it…and then my body reacted as if it were all actually happening again. I think the clinical word is ‘abreacting’. Fucking awful is my description of it. Sustaining my grip on my present was a huge battle, and I instructed my therapist to talk constantly so I could just hear her voice and keep myself grounded in knowing it wasn’t actually happening to me again…that was incredibly hard work. I could hardly breathe- it was a war just to make myself take in breaths. My memory was of being 2, panicked, and holding my breath from utter fear. I knew I grew up in a violent home; I re-experienced that yet again this week, and it brought my understanding of ‘violent home’ to a more tangible and real understanding than I’ve had before. Or I guess I just remember better what it felt like.

That kind of flashback was much more intense than others I’ve experienced, though shorter-lived as well, likely because my therapist was there helping me process through it in the moment. It reminded me of war veterans and more ‘classic’ presentations of flashbacks. Again, it’s just awful. There is no clinical description that adequately captures the experience of terror. One has to have known it to understand it, much like the feeling of being in love.

Anyway, when I was young, I wrote over and over again about feeling broken, seeing pieces of myself all over the place. And 20 years later, I’m working my ass off to find all those damn broken pieces and put them back together. It’s a frustrating process. My life is simultaneously wonderful AND terrible. It beats just being fucking terrible! ;-)

The 'I-Didn't-Commit-Suicide' Party

Sat, 11 Feb 2012 10:47:03 -0500

The time has arrived, the party is scheduled, and I am in LOVE with being alive.

To all of you who have supported me through my darkest times, thank you so very much. I have already done so much healing that I cannot foresee ever being in such a dark place again. I am too much stronger, too much of my fierce self to not be able to hold on to the beautiful things I enjoy about being alive. Hard times will come and go, but as I continue to reclaim myself and become more and more whole, I think they will matter less and less. I have survived extraordinary suffering. Nothing will ever be as terrible as what I’ve already lived through, and now that I am better able to experience the many wondrous things in my life (that have always been there!), there is simply no question…I want to LIVE.

With all of my being, THANK YOU. Words could never encompass the depth of my gratitude.

Reclaiming Me

Sat, 11 Feb 2012 10:40:21 -0500

Part 4, Katie, integrated during therapy this week. I was very attuned to sound after this integration. It was a more subtle experience than previously and equally as wondrous.

A new part came to my awareness while I was at work on Wednesday. Her job was to put on a great show and to do cartwheels and backflips to try and get people to love me for reasons other than sex. This was a sad realization, but before I even had time to really be sad, that part was integrated…while standing at the sink in the bathroom at work. It took me about 10 minutes to contain my giddy laughter and get my ass back out to my office to finish my work day, which I did do successfully. :)

Integrating these three most recent parts has resulted in some profound changes. I feel different. I am perceived differently by others. I am interacting and connecting with others differently. And… It.Is.Marvelous. I feel more like myself than I ever have, more capable of actually BEING myself. I have always known who I am, yet have observed myself struggle with actually acting like me, particularly in interpersonal connections. I’ve seen a huge shift this week, and it’s exciting. I am different, and the things that are happening in my relationships provide overwhelming evidence that when I can truly be me, I am quite capable of experiencing all of the love and connectedness that life has to offer.

Photo

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 22:36:17 -0500

Terror Hurts More Than Pain

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 11:40:47 -0500

I experienced a new flashback this week that was more intense than any I’ve experienced before. The experience brought with it a great deal of reflection and, I believe, new learning on my part. I have written before about a part that is 2 years old and terrified. After I initially recognized her, she faded away and I lost track of her. She resurfaced this week and I felt what she lived through for about 10 minutes before I was able to get it contained. It was the longest 10 minutes of my adult life.

I know pain intimately. I have felt it chronically my entire life, it is more familiar to me than any other emotional or physical experience, and at times, I can find comfort in feeling it because it reminds me that I am actually still alive and am stillme.I have written about it extensively, have a lifetime of poetry books and journals overflowing with words that describe this pain, and I have painted it in various forms repeatedly. I have observed how so many others avoid pain intensely…they will do anything and everything to avoid the experience of it, and this has never made much sense to me. Quite frankly, I never understood what the big deal was. I embrace it; I always have. The sooner I embrace it and feel it, the sooner it will diminish and fade away, until the next time I have to feel it… I assumed that because my life has been filled with pain from the beginning, I somehow just got used to it, or was more comfortable embracing it because I had more experience with it than others, but my observations of others suggested that this wasn’t actually true. I’ve met many people who have gone through extraordinary pain in their lives who still intensely avoid it when it comes up. I certainly have no delusions that my pain is somehow far greater than anyone else’s.

What I experienced this week taught me that, at least for me, there is something FAR greater than pain, far more awful, unbearable, torturous, maddening…a suffering that I could never even have previously imagined. The experience I had for those agonizing 10 minutes was absolute panic and terror…feeling that whatever harm was being done to me was absolutely life-threatening, and knowing without a doubt that I was utterly helpless to do anything to save or protect myself. Even as I write about it, I can feel a tiny bit of that creeping into my gut…that part of me knows that I’m writing about it. A 2-year-old is not only completely helpless, but also not cognitively developed enough to make sense of something harmful happening, and certainly not by someone she trusts. Clearly, the world is a terrifying and completely unsafe place. Life is not safe.

In those moments, I could not control my breathing and was intensely hyperventilating. I felt my heartbeat accelerate and pound in my chest like it does when I’m in the midst of an intense workout. I was shaking, I felt confused, I couldn’t think…and I felt flooded with terror. I did not know that anything could hurt worse than the emotional pain I have known. I learned otherwise very quickly. Being filled with terror felt like every cell in my body screaming…every inch of my body physically hurt. I feel pain in my chest and in my gut, like a knife twisting around inside of me. Terror would be like a knife twisting around in every cell in my body. It hurt SO MUCH…words are, of course, inadequate to fully describe it. It is paralyzing, consuming, and I got a glimpse of how impossible it would be for any human being to endure that ongoing without having some sort of psychological fracture, be it a psychotic break or otherwise. I don’t believe anyone can survive that for long. Which of course makes sense why those of us with dissociative abilities survived what was done to us…we did fracture, because there is no way to survive without it.

I walked away from that experience overwhelmed with sadness. That was done to me. I felt that terror chronically, as a helpless child, with no one to help me or comfort me or save me. I had no childhood, no carefree time, no time free of suffering, because I never knew when it was going to happen again. I would not wish that experience on ANYONE, not even the people who abused me. I simply do not want anyone to feel suffering such as that. I thought about the reality that there are other children all over the world who feel that same thing, that there are so many of them who will not get any help, just as I did not. This grieves me. I have so much love and hope in humanity, and yet I am so grieved by the intense ways in which we fail and harm one another. Perhaps more people need to know suffering like that in order to have more compassion and make better choices about how they will treat others.

I learned that I am able and willing to embrace my pain because it is simply not anywhere near the worst thing I have experienced. In comparison to terror, it’s not a big deal AT ALL. It’s comforting. Pain is contained, it is manageable, it doesn’t mean I’m going to die, it means I am still alive. Terror, on the other hand, is annihilating. I can embrace the most intense pain any day of the week. Ask me to embrace my terror and you will see my ‘strength’ disappear. I no longer believe I can embrace my pain solely because I am strong person. I believe I can embrace it, in part, because I’ve known so much worse.

It Can All Happen So Quickly

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 11:06:51 -0500

Part 17 identified in therapy this week. Older teen part, 15, highly sexualized and alcoholic. I had barely been able to identify the part and try and get memories contained by the time I left therapy, and I integrated that part on my drive back to work. It was so subtle that I was questioning if it had even really happened or if I was making shit up in my head…and then I quickly realized that I was reading every single piece of written information my eyes could find along the way. Speed limit signs, street signs, license plates…everything. She likes to read and had been encapsulated in a time that was back in WI…she had never seen MN before. And then that shit-eating grin that I get crept across my face and I could not stop smiling or feeling elated. Yes, this was real. I integrated another part.

The final confirmation came when I painted the next day. I have since hung the painting in my living room, and when I really look at it, I simply cannot believe I painted it. I’ve never painted a ‘thing’ before. It felt deliberate. As I stood outside just prior to painting and reflected on how I was feeling after integrating another part, I felt the physical expansion I’ve described before, and thought of the phoenix rising from the ashes…and then I painted it. It was one of the best painting experiences I’ve ever had. It flowed, it was easy, it was enjoyable, and astounding as it was happening. And it was SO much fun!!!

I can see my psyche fighting to piece itself back together through the puzzle pieces of my paintings. I am seeing the gaps get smaller and smaller, and while I still cannot consciously remember certain things, I know they’re there, I’m pretty certain I know what they are, and I see myself preparing for those memories to coalesce. I am all too familiar with the memories of what those experiences caused me to feel in my body- those are primarily what I feel during flashbacks. I am also quite familiar with the frantic cognitive processing that goes with that, my desperate efforts to use my intelligence to predict future pain and avoid it, and to make sense of the pain I feel in the moment in an effort to find a way to make it stop. The visual and auditory pieces of those memories are what are tucked away and are apparently far more threatening to me. I have felt those pieces trying to push their way out prematurely, and have resisted it. I don’t know how I know, but I need to make more progress before I feel ready to face what happened to me in that way…to actually see it through my own eyes. As I think you all know, I’ve also got PLENTY on my fucking plate already right now! It can wait.

Me, Trying to Keep Up With The Fucking Count!

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:36:39 -0500

13) The part who carried shame. She was weighted down by a black chain-link blanket; shame. I always thought it was interesting that I couldn’t relate to the feeling of shame, despite reading about it so frequently and hearing and seeing it in others. Duh. That part of me carried all of it and was completely isolated from the rest of my system. I am discovering that many parts of myself were isolated from the system because of what they carried. She was so ashamed that she wouldn’t even let me see her face. She has rejoined the system and has been freed from that fucking blanket.

14) The scariest face I’ve ever seen. Introject. Another keeper of secrets. I’m learning that there were SO many horrible secrets to keep that numerous parts were created to keep different memories secret from other parts of self, and to frighten any parts away from telling. This particular part had a face so fucking scary it would totally give me nightmares if I saw it with my physical eyes. I wish I had a talent for repesentational art so I could actually paint it, though maybe not…it’s indescribable. Just consider that the image is more frightening to me than anything I’ve seen with my actual eyes. Yep, I just shuddered. The mask is off, the little girl underneath has rejoined the rest of the system. Hard for me to believe I created that image. Eesh.

15) Another introject, the red eyes. Another secret keeper who gave up her job, easily and happily. She has also rejoined the rest of the system. She was an easier part to work with…it’s always nice when that happens.

16) The forlorn part who bites if you get too close. To be continued…

No More Safety Net

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:28:02 -0500

“I’m in here, can anybody see me? Can anybody help? I’m in here, a prisoner of history. Can anybody help? Can’t you hear my call? Are you coming to get me now? I’ve been waiting for you to come rescue me. I need you to hold all of the sadness I cannot live with inside of me. I’m in here, I’m trying to tell you something. Can anybody help? I’m in here, I’m calling out but you can’t hear. Can anybody help? Can’t you hear my call? Are you coming to get me now? I’ve been waiting for you to come rescue me. I need you to hold all of the sadness I cannot live with inside of me. I’m crying out, I’m breaking down. I am fearing it all stuck inside these walls. Tell me there is hope for me. Is anybody out there listening? Can you hear my call? Are you coming to get me now? I’ve been waiting for you to come rescue me. I need you to hold all of the sadness I cannot live with inside of me. I’m in here. Can anybody see me? Can anybody help?” -Sia

I felt compelled to listen to this song tonight after days of increasing distress and anxiety. I promptly re-experienced new memories via flashback (yep, that nausea to vomiting experience again), and oh my, they were so very painful. This song is the voice of parts of me who thought that, after being irrevocably betrayed by my parents, perhaps the young man my mother then brought into our home could be safe, could keep me from further harm with his presence, would care enough to really see me. Instead, after gaining my trust and love, that man molested me, and I knew in that moment that the answer to every question in that song was ‘no’. The moment he abused me was the moment I lost all hope of ever being rescued. I lost hope that I would ever be loved in a safe way. I lost hope that I would ever be anything but helpless and alone. Even now, despite all of my progress, the depth of my support system, the hope I have for my future, the answer to all of those questions is still ‘no’. It’s up to me, and only me. And that means that in some ways, I am actually alone. No one can hear or truly see those little parts of me except for me; no one can take care of them but me; no one can help them but me. They are all me, and only I can do this work. Only I can walk my path, see what I see, feel what I feel, and have survived what I have survived.

I chose not to reach out for support tonight. I needed to just be with me. And that was okay. I am coming to terms with a deeper understanding of what it means to live with DID, what it means to have survived the kind of abuse I have survived. The abusive choices of others have isolated me in some very permanent ways. I am not isolated; I am not alone. Not holistically. Which is how I can bear the ways in which I am, and always will be, isolated and alone. I’ve grown weary of trying to find ways to explain my experiences, to be seen, to be understood, to bring others into the world that is my system. It is a futile task, because the best I can do is get people to ‘sort of’ understand it, and draw comparisons with what they have known or experienced themselves, or what they have seen in other people. No one I know intimately knows anyone else with DID, nor has DID themselves, so it means a lot of work for me, without the ultimate success of what I am trying in vain to do. It is yet another price charged to those of us who have been abused so terribly. And I now have better places to expend my energy. I needed to make every effort to be seen for quite some time, and that energy was well spent, and invaluable. Thank you to all of you for putting in the effort to listen, to ask questions, to be interested, to care about me. I think I’m moving into a newer stage of healing where I am capable of experiencing certain parts of me alone. Ultimately, there will always be times when I am alone, when there is no one available to lean on, and I am growing in my ability to be strong enough to be quite okay, regardless of whether or not someone is available for support. I will still share, still blog, still talk about my experiences, but my need and motivation to do so seems to have fundamentally changed. It’s a good change. I’m getting stronger.

As I went through another round of ‘new-to-me’ flashbacks tonight, some of my experiences were quite different than they’ve been before. I spent time looking at each of my paintings, and touching them. I saw my hands moving in ways that I’m quite certain they have done in the past. I could see with new eyes the meaning inherent in some of those paintings, and could see with certainty which paintings were representations of me, and which paintings were memories. I also identified a painting of a memory that has yet to resurface, and is one that is likely to be one of the worst of them all. I could barely tolerate looking at that particular painting.

In all of the paintings, my eyes saw what I feared they would see when I initially refused to hang the paintings in my home; horrific carnage smeared all over my walls. Bloody handprints, muffled screams, and layers and layers of pain, suffering, and torture. It was a door opened to all of the emotion, pain, and memory that fueled the creation of those paintings in the first place. And once the memories were contained, those paintings went back to simply being my art, my beautiful art, my expressions of myself and my life, hung in my home with pride and happiness that I have found such a beautiful and silent voice for myself. I will not take them down; they once again look quite beautiful to me. But I remember what else I saw tonight…I saw them through the eyes of other parts of myself.

It lasted a long time, longer than usual, and I found myself sobbing the word ‘Why’ over and over. It reminded me that, as a child, I didn’t know better than to ask that question repeatedly. I also fucked up my hands, yet again, by pounding them on the floor. I really thought I was done with that part of experiencing flashbacks, but apparently not. I tried to ice them right away but kept moving in and out of memories and ultimately found my ice pack laying on the floor. I can type, obviously, so I’m fine for work tomorrow. They’re just quite sore.

I also got a look at another new part of self, one who looks forlorn and broken, but as I try to move in for a closer look, she lashes out fiercely with some serious bite. I am too tired to do more exploratory work with her tonight, but I would imagine she’s ready to communicate with me since she let me see her. I’ve now moved into a stage of meeting parts of self that are actually quite frightening to me at times. She is another one of those parts. And I also know that when I understand what her job has been and what she needs, that will dissipate.

Lastly, I had enough co-consciousness the entire time that I was never frightened, never overwhelmingly distressed, and always knew I was quite safe. Given how familiar my pain is to me, it was almost comforting to become reacquainted with lost memories, to re-experience pain I have carried around within me unbeknownst fully to me…despite the suffering of it all, I find comfort in knowing myself better and knowing more clearly what I have lived through. My feelings were fractured from my visual memories which were fractured from other sensory memories which were fractured from various parts of myself. It is not just parts of self that are reintegrating; my entire history, as well as parts of self, are integrating, and facets of that process continue to be profoundly painful. The difference now is that I can contain the pain, I can put a stop to it, I can take breaks as needed. Thus, it is far more manageable. And I can experience a night like tonight and not need to text anyone about it. I’ve progressed into doing my work without a safety net immediately beneath me. I know if I need it and I call on it, it will appear, but I’m willing to take these bigger steps on my own without the constant reassurance that it’s right there. It will be there if I need it. And that’s good enough.

Memory Vomit

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 22:23:43 -0500

After a year in treatment, I am finally set to start re-processing actual traumatic memories as of this week. I have come to terms with my system, learned to contain traumatic memories, have access to my internal resources, and am ready to heal and move on with my life. I grow tired and annoyed, quite frankly, with the ways in which my past continues to rob my present of the full wealth of experience and joy that I deserve, and that I believe I have EARNED. I have more work to do, but my time is coming, dammit!!!

I had more memories resurface this evening and recognized that as I continue to become stronger internally, with integration of parts and better access to my resources, the memories that resurface become more sordid, more disgustingly detailed, and more painful. I am well aware that there continue to be memories which are well-contained and which I cannot consciously access, always with good reason. Can’t say I’m looking forward to unpacking those and having to actually merge that information with my conscious awareness. Some of that content was pushing at the barriers tonight, almost to remind me it was there. I know what they are, but it is very different to know cognitively what they are versus re-experiencing them or actually seeing those movies play out in my head. That time will come, I am certain.

I thought about what it would look like should someone actually capture my experiences of flashbacks on film. I thought of how painfully heartbreaking it must look as I collapse on the floor and sob, moan, and hold myself, rocking, re-experiencing pain and suffering that happened a long, long time ago. I shake, I writhe, and I hyperventilate as I attempt to physically and psychologically get my feet back on the ground. Tonight, one of my cats actually came down from the upstairs bedroom as soon as he could hear me crying and laid at my feet until it was over. Film could never capture the mental processes of containment and work that happen during those times. Communicating with self about what parts are remembering, trying to access the container and contain memories, soothing other parts of self when they feel scared, identifying parts of self that may be emerging, listening to what it is that I am trying to communicate with myself. I usually feel wiped out when it’s all over. Oh yeah…and then there’s accessing the kleenex box and doing my best to, amidst everything else, keep up with wiping up snot and drool…multiple kleenex are required. Sobbing is a messy activity, but I’d prefer not to be a complete slob about it. ;-)

I also realized that I experience resurfacing memories much like I experience nausea and vomiting. Everything can be going perfectly fine, and all of a sudden, something just doesn’t feel quite right, much like the onset of mild nausea. I’m never even certain at that point that something is really wrong. It’s a feeling that grows until I’m sure that something is actually wrong. And then I try to figure it out. As soon as I recognize something is going on with my system, it’s the parallel to full-blown nausea, and that moment when you KNOW you’re totally going to puke. You know the time it takes from the recognition of that moment to getting yourself somewhere to vom without making a huge mess? That is a parallel to the time I use to get myself to a carpeted area and get my hands on the kleenex box…it’s usually pretty rushed. And then memories come hurtling out and I have to deal with them whether I want to or not. When it’s all done, I have to get up slowly, clean myself up, check myself out and make sure I’m actually okay to be getting up, and then move forward. I’m pretty sure you can all relate in some capacity. It’s a totally gross comparison, but really pretty accurate.

And I hope you’re chuckling, at least a little. One of the beautiful things about how much stronger I have become is that I can have these experiences and very soon after, be smiling, laughing, and full of love and hope once again. AND start cracking jokes right away. My life still has its moments of bullshit, but fuck…life is SO beautiful. I want to smile and laugh for as much of it as I possibly can.

Integration

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 21:50:00 -0500

I have realized that part of why I have procrastinated for so long in writing about integration is that it’s simply impossible to fully represent with words. I have experienced it twice now and I could never truly express what it’s like in writing. I have not felt compelled to paint it, which I also find interesting…I suspect that time will come later.

For now, this is the best I can do: The experience of integrating fractured parts of myself is a more expansive experience than I have ever had. It feels HUGE. I feel larger than life when it happens…physically larger, as if my body physically expands. Like being high, but better, with altered senses, altered perceptions…seeing the outside world for the first time, with the eyes of a child. The world is astoundingly more beautiful, more complex AND simultaneously so simple. Like being reborn as a more holistic being, a stronger being, a more beautiful person, a more loving person, a more complete ME. I become overwhelmed with the experience of feeling who I am, how much I love, how much I want to share my love with the world. It feels like freedom, expansive happiness, laughter, sunshine, rainbows. Like soaring. Like being able to truly breathe for the first time. It is peace, wonder, awe.

And LOVE. Adequately describe the experience of love in words if you can, people. That’s what integration is like…LOVE. Boundless, immeasurable, powerful love. That feeling you have when you’re madly in love with someone and you feel like your chest could actually explode? That’s close to what integration is like for me.

Oh yeah…and the ‘seeing the world anew with a child’s eyes’ bit hasn’t gone away yet. I am enamored with the color of houses, with the patterns in carpeting, smells, sounds…everything is so much more fascinating and beautiful. I smile A LOT. It’s pretty fun. Hopefully I won’t get caught too often doing that smiling at the carpeting when I’m by myself…people might think I have a mental illness or something. ;-)

Us, Count Updated

Tue, 03 Jan 2012 21:00:00 -0500

11, 12) The 13s. Two 13-year-old parts created when I was molested by the man who lived in our house that I trusted as my big brother— my mother’s best friend’s son. Two parts engulfed in a ball of flames. Initially, I thought it was just one part whose job was to channel a lifetime of rage and use that energy for productive ends, like getting a 4.0 in school, having the strength to write my dad a letter to tell him I wouldn’t visit him anymore, and establishing myself as an outsider and someone to not be messed with as I entered high school. That was just one part…the other part was hiding behind her, the one who was abused, hurt, and scared. She can’t understand how he could do that when she trusted him so much to take care of us and keep us safe, particularly from my dad. This man actually made me feel safe when I went to my dad’s house for the last time to collect my belongings…he took me to my dad’s house and kept a watchful eye over me the entire time…he was my protector, the big brother I never had to keep me safe when I needed help. Until he sexually abused me himself.

He abused me twice, two days in a row, and as a 13-year-old child, I confronted him face-to-face after the abuse on the second day, and told him it had to stop, as, obviously, my mother could never find out—I actually said that to him, a grown man. I can see those moments in my head like a movie. I had no one to help me, no one to protect me, and only me to take care of myself. And this was all after what I had already survived with my dad. And of course, he agreed to stop. Fucking piece of shit.

My mother has known what he did to me for ten years now; we have talked about it repeatedly and she has acknowledged it as sexual abuse. And yet, she chose to attend his wedding with my younger brother 2 years ago, and fucking told me about it like it was nothing the last time my ex-partner and I saw her. My little brother doesn’t know what happened; this man was a mentor to him after living with us for years, and quite frankly, I’m afraid that my little brother would either not believe me or go out and kill him if I told the truth. I kept what happened a secret for 6 years…I never told ANYONE. Never even journaled about it. Utterly alone, as always. One day not long after he abused me, I overheard him talking to my mother in the kitchen when my mother was sharing with him her concerns about me as I had “changed” recently and seemed more depressed and withdrawn; his comment was that he had noticed and he pretended to also be as concerned as her, and to support her and muse about what might be going on with me. That is betrayal and pain like I could NEVER express with words. I was still 13 when I overheard that conversation.

This man is now a quite successful Olympic coach, and I saw him on television during the last Olympics. If I seem unexcited about the Olympics, now you know why. Please don’t ask me if I fucking watch them, or why I don’t. I get tired of lying about it.

So…after a 10-hour day at work re-entering from vacation, I had this to process when I got home. Not my happiest day, to say the least. I can feel the rage about the injustice, unfairness, lack of love and safety, betrayal, disgust, and inescapable pain boiling inside of me. Thankfully, those two parts gave up their jobs and built themselves a waterpark in the mental imagery that is my system’s playground…the other playground is for the littler kids. I suspect there will be numerous other older parts who will join them at the waterpark to play.

My adult part is left to cry about it all. Of course there is no answer to this question, but I can’t stop it from running through my head…what the fuck did I ever do to deserve this? Why me?

Us, The Current Count

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 14:40:00 -0500

1) Annie/Shell: Integrated 12/14. Shell + Me= MeShell. Michelle. “She is more me than me”

2) The scared one. Very young…2ish. Nonverbal. Terrified. Needs a lot of comfort and safety.

3) Formerly Jerry. Jerry? I can barely remember all of their names. Young boy, 7ish. Carried the weight when it was overwhelming so I could continue to function. Gave up his job a few weeks ago. Can’t really find him as a distinct part any longer.

4) Formerly Katie. 4ish. Her job was to be present in my physical body while I was being abused. She gave up her job gladly and is with the others playing. Can’t find her as a distinct part very well.

5) Formerly Amy. 7ish. Her job was to carry all of the pain and sadness that came with a lifetime of being abused. Her pain crushed me time and time again, and she was utterly isolated from the rest of the system as no one wanted to be near her or feel what she felt. It was her that would come out and make me feel so alone and in so much pain throughout my life, long after the abuse was done. With her came suicidality…no one can experience that kind of pain and suffering for very long. She now helps to take care of littler ones in the system. Very happy and playful…silly. :) She is incredibly relieved to not have that job any longer.

6) The Reader. An introject. Her job was to scare everyone in the system from telling secrets. She specifically asked to give up her job, and did a couple of weeks ago. Leery of the system as they were always afraid of her. She’s with them now, but off to the side reading books in what looks like a nice grassy spot. She isn’t sure yet if she can trust me to take care of everyone, but she’s willing to see what happens.

7) This part’s name is my dad’s name. An introject who looked just like him. She asked to give up her job, and she did…actually just a little girl whose job was to anticipate my dad’s every move to prepare the system for anticipating abuse. Another serious one. She’s with The Reader, just sitting and watching, warily. She’s not sure I can keep everyone safe, including her.

8) The one with the teddy bear. 6ish. Her job was to take care of my little brother. She gave up her job (and her teddy bear) shortly after he arrived to visit. She’s playing with the others, and I can’t find her as a distinct part much anymore.

9) The one who told. 5ish. This part was present when I experienced my first recalled memory of abuse by my dad. Not sure where she is as of now.

10) 4-year-old part. Not very familiar with her yet. Something abusive happened on her birthday and she hates them.

Those are the ones I can differentiate thus far. I believe there are older parts that I haven’t yet identified but that have written in my journal. Numerous ones, I believe. There are also more introjects.

Writing about this carnage makes me very sad. My life is what it is and I can accept that, but I deserved something simpler and easier. I did not deserve to be left with this.

I'm not quite done with 2011 yet...

Sun, 01 Jan 2012 21:32:29 -0500

It’s 2012, and everything as I knew it has changed. Everything.

I keep coming back to this blog with the intention of documenting the day of first reintegration, documenting the flurry of recently emerged parts, writing about the dramatic shifts in my experiences at the end of 2011…and I simply don’t want to do it. Not sure why yet. It’s a lot to tackle in writing, and I’m procrastinating. I think it’s also actually painful to write about, so maybe I’m just avoiding that inevitability for now. Feels like a step in the right direction just to name that I keep choosing not to do it…for now.

The First Time

Sun, 18 Dec 2011 10:36:00 -0500

The house was silent. No music, no movement…just the rhythmic ticking of the living room clock. When I took my coffee and sat outside, Nomi was silent. No traffic, no barking dogs, no birds, no airplanes, no people talking in the distance…just the quiet roar of a cold breeze in my ears. As I sat in the sun smiling, it hit me like a big ocean wave pushing into my chest and filling me from head to toe. Peace. Expansive, encompassing, soothing peace. I am not alone.

I have known, in my head, that I am not alone. I am surrounded by amazing love, amazing friends, amazing support. But because of what I have survived, I have never truly felt it. I have clutched too tightly to my relationships, my time with others, my phone, to spare myself the experience of feeling alone, because I have so often had to feel it. I know what it is to be utterly alone in the world…helpless, terrified, tortured, and alone. I know what it is to live a life of feeling alone, even when I truly am not. And now, I know what it is to NOT feel alone. To feel peace in knowing that I can be alone and not feel alone. I would imagine that the feeling of being alone will come and go until I am able to process my trauma fully. But today, I learned what it feels like to EXPERIENCE that I am not alone, and I am filled with hope.

I felt my chest swell as I focused on that experience of peace flowing through my body. I started laughing, and my eyes filled with tears. The blue sky never before looked quite so beautiful. I sat with the feeling of knowing…I am not alone. And then the world awoke. The dogs started barking, traffic went by, an airplane flew overheard, I heard the voices of a neighbor’s visitor outside. It was as if the world had paused for just a moment to allow me to have my solitude, my first time of knowing peace.

I have so much to write about yet…it has been a monumental week. I know some of you are waiting, and I will write more when I have the time. For now, I am living my life (rather than writing about it) and enjoying the benefits of the progress I made this week. I am alive, and very glad to be so. My life is quite an amazing gift when I am able to fully be in it, be present, and experience it as it truly is. I love all of you dearly and am so grateful for the support you gave me in my lowest and darkest time this past week. Thank you. The words are utterly inadequate to express the true magnitude of my gratitude, but thank you. All of you allow me to experience why it is that life is truly worth living.

The NON-Suicide Letter

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 14:07:15 -0500

Dearest Loves,

I have reached the brink and am staring at the edge of the cliff. I am writing this letter to all of you in an effort to ask for help, clarify the help that I need, and to name that I am in a place of truly needing help in order to survive this time in my life. It is not a matter of ‘can’. I know how strong I am, better than anyone, and that I could survive far worse. Where I am at includes intense moments of exhaustion, feeling defeated, and seeing that the difficult path ahead of me does not feel worth the struggle. Those moments come and go, but their intensity and duration has reached levels that tell me how close I sometimes am to giving up. I don’t know that it has always been clear to all of you, but it has always been clear to me, that when I have previously spoken of being unsure if I would “make it”, what I always meant was that I was uncertain that I would continue to choose to make it. I can choose to live or I can choose to die. I am fighting to live, and sending this message to all of you is what I need if I’m going to be able to sustain that fight.

So you’re all aware, I am not interested in hospitalization. I believe it would be traumatizing in and of itself, my treatment would be questionable as many clinicians still don’t even believe in DID, and my insurance only partially covers the cost (I looked into this last night). So don’t try to hospitalize me unless you intend to pay for the $5,000+ bill with which I would inevitably be discharged. If I leave the hospital facing astronomical medical bills, on top of losing my house and all of the financial uncertainty of my future, that will not be helpful to me with trying to continue to choose to live. Nevermind all of the social/professional/personal repercussions of having been hospitalized…

This is what I know I need to make my life currently one that is worth continuing: I need to be busy, out socializing, having fun, laughing, and meeting new people. I need to stay out of my house as much as possible as it is a depressing reminder of extraordinary loss. I need to be alone in my house less. I need to keep up with the house, keep it clean, and take adequate care of my pets. I need to stay on top of money management and paying my bills. I need to paint. I need music. I need to eat. I need sleep. I need to feel loved and cared about. I need to be effective at my job. I need to be able to communicate with you when I am having one of those moments of wanting to end my life, and I need support in those moments. And for fuck’s sake…I need to NOT experience any more losses in the next couple of months!!!

I am no longer able to do all of these things on my own. I have a plan to ask all of you for help in various areas, tangible help, not just emotional support. You all already provide amazing emotional support. I need support with keeping up with day-to-day life and protecting myself from time alone where I sink into despair and being overwhelmed with pain, loss, and grief.

As far as my experience with suicidality, all of you clinicians should already recognize that I am at high risk. Loss of partnerships, loss of two parental relationships and numerous family members including my dad’s family and Chris’ family, loss of my house (they’ve already started calling me about the first missed payments), loss of my financial stability, loss of my educational involvement with no realistic plan as of yet for return, a friend who committed suicide recently, lack of job security and job stress, physical/medical problems…loss of the band, suddenly living alone, no family here to physically come and help me… Oh yeah, and then there’s that whole onset of DID, complete with daily flashbacks and fuckery, and the loss of my former life as I knew it…

What I need is for people to recognize that this is serious and if I’m going to make it to an easier part of my journey, I need help. I am NOT doing as well as I appear when you see me or talk to me- this is the skill of my system at work. I need to be able to share openly and honestly when I am experiencing thoughts of suicide. This is what I need from you when I do share that I’m experiencing SI:

1) DO validate the pain and distress I am feeling in that moment. VALIDATE FIRST, please. When my pain is not acknowledged/validated, I do not feel understood and immediately feel more isolated.

2) Do NOT tell me you know that I’ll make it, you know it will get easier, etc. etc. You don’t know these things because you do not know what choice I will make, and it is my choice to live or to die. Certain parts of me get pissy when you think you can tell them what they will or will not do. ;-)

3) DO tell me that you love me/care about me. Remind me that you are with me on my ridiculous journey through life.

4) DO tell me that you want me to choose to live, that you want me to choose to keep fighting.

5) DO ask me what I am able to do to take care of myself in that moment. It is possible that the only thing I was able to do was to reach out to you to begin with.

I recognize that it may be scary or anxiety-provoking to deal with someone you care about sharing with you that they are not sure they want to live. I MUST be able to do this if I will be able to continue to make the choice to live; those are terrible moments for me and being alone in them is the riskiest thing that can happen for me. I need help, more than ever before, because I do actually want to make it through all of this.

I love all of you. I fully intend to throw myself an “I DIDN’T commit suicide” party when I make it further past all of this bullshit and life feels easier again. Thank you for being the beautiful people you all are. Truly, I would not choose to survive if it weren’t for beautiful people like you being in my life.

With all of my love and fighting spirit,

-M

Birthday #2

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 10:04:59 -0500

I went from my own birthday in September, feeling that things were turning a corner, to my mother’s birthday today and feeling like I’m sinking again. The amount of grief I’m trying to make it through right now is an unbelievable weight upon me. Grief can’t be contained like flashbacks can. It just sits, and hurts, and presses upon me. It would be fucking awesome if shit would stop monsooning on me all at the same fucking time. They don’t make umbrellas for shitstorms.

I know, I know…make my own fucking shit umbrella.