Expressive Arts Carnival #3

Time is so screwy for us right now. Like I'm sure weeks have passed and I'm late paying all the bills, but then thankfully it turns out it's only been days. Or alternatively, that I was certain it had been only a couple of days since I said I'd get back to a client and then I discover I said that over a month ago. Yikes.

So it was a relief when I suddenly remembered that we wanted to participate in this month's Expressive Arts Carnival hosted at Mind Parts, and after checking the blog, discovered that I hadn't missed the deadline after all.

The assignment was: "On a white or black background, choose two (and only two) colors and make a painting (digital or analog) that represents where you have been mentally for the past week or so."

Here is our submission:

Notes on this image: there's been more focus lately on the system working as a united whole, even if we never fully integrate. We are our own light, a ball of light, though we have raw wounds, angry red welts of pain and memory. The beliefs we still struggle with, beliefs about our self-worth and the world around us, are a prison. Still, we continue to heal, to let our light shine through.

Distraction Day

So anxious and depressed today. A lot of commotion inside. Everything from "How could he?!" to "I have so much work to do!" The best we could do was distract ourselves, and reading seems to be the only way to do that. Even watching TV or a movie doesn't work anymore. Too easily distracted away from the distraction.

It's true, there is a lot of work to do, but there's a lot of work to do every day. We run a one-woman shop and have a lot of different jobs to do in this business. Having constant work is a good thing. Someday we might even make a living from it. But today was a read-a-book-in-bed day. Tomorrow, we have a work meeting and have to be competent. I hope!

We've done this depression/anxiety thing before, dealing with new memories or new-to-us alters. Everything is unsettled and emotions are just beneath the surface. Today this sort of conversation was taking place:

It's all in the past. It's done. Over. No one is hurting us now. Just get over it.

I'm trying but I can't help how I feel.

Do something physical. Can we at least get up and get dressed? Make lunch? I'm hungry.

If I push through this, I will pay for it later. God, it hurts. Why does it have to hurt? Why can't I just hate them?

Nononononononononoooo... Don't think don't think don't feel... he's coming back he always comes back I can never get away he'll find me and then she'll blame me and it will be all my fault it's always my fault...

I'm going to check email again. Oh no, what if someone's mad at me? What if I'm still screwing up? I can't check email now. Where's my book?

I have a lot of work to do. I'm not getting anything done! What if this goes on forever? I'm going to go broke because I can't work and then that will be all my fault.

We should end it now. If we're not here anymore, no one can hurt us. No one can be mad at us. No one will even remember us. It's safe that way.

No! That would be worse. Then people really would be angry with us. Think of the kids. We have to be here for them!

Have to focus. Have to breathe. This will pass. Where's my book?

A new part comes foward

I had the strangest dissociative experience last week. I was sitting and talking with my IRL friend J when I suddenly felt like I'd just opened my eyes, even though they were already open. Or like I had a second set of eyes and those had just opened. And then for about five seconds, I had absolutely no clue who this other woman (my friend J) was.

Didn't recognize her. Didn't know anything about her. Nothing. Total stranger. It took just those few seconds for this other part to determine she was safe and then {}poof{} she was gone.

I don't know her name, but she's shared a few things with us since then:

• she was "out" when we were in Girl Scout Brownies
• she was out in a ballet class we were in circa early elementary school
• she remembers an experience going to Dad's workplace after hours (more shortly)
• she is hyper-sensitive about "down there"
• she believes everyone wants to look at a girl "down there"

She first came forward with memories about arguing with Mom about wearing the Brownie Scout uniform, which was a very short dress. She didn't want to wear it, or wanted to wear pants under it. But apparently that was against Girl Scout regulations at the time and Mom wouldn't let her. At every Brownie Scouts meeting, her focus was completely on how to keep anyone from looking between her legs.

Just recently, she shared parts of a memory that finally makes sense of a trigger we've never understood before. She remembers going with Dad to his workplace after hours one night. It was a secure facility, requiring a numerical key lock to get in the front door after hours, then signing in with a guard just inside the entrance, showing the company ID badge, signing a log... the whole bit.

Dad told Mom he'd forgotten something at work and it couldn't wait. He offered to take me, saying he'd show me where he worked, and maybe even get me a hot chocolate from the vending machine in the cafeteria (my absolute favorite part when we watched Fourth of July fireworks on the facility's campus each year). After signing in, there's a blur, then lying down on something (couch? table?) and seeing exposed ductwork in the ceiling. Maybe ceiling panels from a drop ceiling that had been removed? Maybe a ceiling that was never finished? At any rate, the ductwork was then associated with terror.

Dad met at least two other men there that night. She heard them talking and laughing. And the talking and the laughing and the ductwork and the lying down and the ductwork and the paralyzing fear and the sicksicksick feeling and the fear...

I never understood before now why seeing ductwork was so triggering. I still don't know what happened. It seems to involve a lot more fear and sense of "wrongness" than it does pain. Or physical pain, anyway. My suspicion is that photographs were taken. Maybe more, but at least that much.

After all this time, after years of therapy, I had no idea that there were still unshared memories. Dad's been dead now for six years; Mom passed away a little over a year ago. Maybe that finally makes it safe.

Safe, maybe, but it makes me sick.

-Chris

Backlash

When I set out last night to write on the blog, I never intended to write about my mystery spirit visitor. I'd planned to write a post about how the messages I heard repeatedly as a child formed my self-worth (or lack thereof). That I was far from special. I was Not Good Enough (no matter what).

Imagine my surprise when a completely different post came about. But one of the rules we (as a DID system) decided on was that this blog was for expression and working through things, and as such, we would not delete posts written by others in the system. If someone else inside wanted to write a rebuttal, or explain another perspective, that was fine. But no destroying anything that another created.

But that didn't stop the internal backlash as a result of last night's post. It went something like this:

Such pretty words, saying anyone can benefit from the resources of the universe. But that's not true, is it? Because if everyone had conversations with spirit guides or angels or whatever they are, you wouldn't be worried about people thinking you're insane. No, you didn't reassure anyone with that post---you just set out to describe how you're oh so special and not everyone has these experiences. In fact, you'll make anyone who reads that post feel worse, not better. No one's going to want to be friends with you. No one's even going to want to like you. Congratulations.

I was really starting to question whether I should leave the post up or not. Except taking it down was against the rules. I didn't want anyone to feel worse, or to think that post was self-important. Because that's so not what I was trying to do. I really wanted to offer hope. I really believe that there are vast resources for anyone who wants them, whether it comes in the form of mysterious visitations or dreams or messages from the ancestors or unexplained knowing or visions or inspiration.

A long heartfelt talk with my IRL friend J helped a lot. She reminded me that the purpose of this blog isn't necessarily to educate or inspire (though it'd be great if it did), but to share experiences, which is exactly what I did. She also pointed out that everyone has different strengths. Some people have perfect pitch, can play piano effortlessly, or run a four-minute mile, or fly an airplane, or develop iPhone apps, or do chemistry or calculus. I can't do any of those. I just have mystical experiences.

So I won't break the rules and take it down. And I will keep reminding myself of what my counselor keeps telling us: "Your experience is your experience and it doesn't need to be anything more." And I will keep sharing, despite the critical voice(s) in my head.

And maybe my next post will be the one I started to write last night.

~Shea

Special? Or human?

There's a very interesting discussion going on at sharing our spaces about finding balance between the very human need to feel special and concerns about self-absorption. This is something I've struggled with for decades. Literally.

When I was four, I stuck a metal fork in an ungrounded electrical outlet. Sparks flew, I was thrown back a foot (or so it seemed), and a two-foot space around the outlet was scorched. In the immediate aftermath, before it occurred to me to be scared, I saw a man standing between me and the outlet. He didn't say anything; he just smiled reassuringly. Then he disappeared and I saw the black wall and little burn marks on the carpet and then I screamed and my parents came running.

The man came back a few more times before I was ten. On one of those occasions, my mom was mad at me for something.  I don’t remember what.  I had run to my room and closed the door, but I heard her screaming in the kitchen. Then I heard her get into the closet, and a bunch of noise, like stuff falling over. All of a sudden, the man was there. He had very kind gray eyes. He told me not to be afraid, that he was there to help me.  Then he pointed to my bed and said ‘Quickly, under there.’ My mom came into my room only moments after I got under the bed, and knocked everything off my shelves, smashed some of my toys, threw everything out of my closet and onto the floor. At one point, she dropped a wooden handle, like a broom handle with no broom on the end.  I couldn’t see the man, from under the bed, but I sensed he was still there. She destroyed my room, but she never touched the bed. Some time after she left, he said it was okay to come out. But by the time I got out from under the bed, he was gone.

It never occurred to me to feel afraid of this man. In fact, despite the sheer terror I felt in the situations before each time he showed up, his presence always made me feel protected. It made me feel loved. It made me feel... a little special.

It wasn't until I was a teenager that I started thinking maybe these visits were a little odd. I was well-used to talking to people no one else could see, but this one was different. He showed up seemingly on his own agenda; I couldn't call him. And I was acutely aware that every time he showed up, I was spared from something even nastier than what I'd already endured.

When I was 16, I'd decided there was no way out, no way to escape the horrors at home and still live. I'd decided that my parents must be right about me, that I was no good---would never be good enough---and I ought to end it all. I had a plan. I started saying goodbye to my friends at school.

The day I'd decided to do it, I was walking to my locker from lunch and saw the same man leaning against a tree, waiting for me. "We need to talk," he said. I argued with him, out of desperation or frustration or something. I didn't realize other students saw me arguing with a tree. A school administrator took me to the office. My mom was called. My best friend meanwhile had reported her concerns that I was suicidal. Child Protective Services got involved. Through it all, the man stayed with me, talking to me.

Among the things he said to me (taken from a journal I kept back then): "There is something important you must do in this lifetime. Every human being on the earth has something important to do. Events are set in motion, certain people must be brought together, every person’s actions affect everyone around them, and any number of things could throw the whole direction off balance."

It made me feel...well...a little special.

And if he was right, everyone had something to contribute. Everyone was special, for reasons as unique as they were. But more importantly, to my mind at the time, I mattered. If not to my parents, I mattered to... what? Or maybe I should ask, Whom?

I have my suspicions about the man, about who or what he is. He's shown up a handful of times in my adult life, and it's sometimes been pretty intense. About twenty years ago (!) when he showed up, I asked for proof, for some sign that he was more than a figment of my imagination. His response convinced me in no uncertain terms. It strengthened my belief, perhaps even a kind of knowing, in whatever you want to call it: God, Spirit, the Source, an Intelligence in the universe.

Talk about humbling. And yet, a little special, too.

Only a very few people who know me IRL know about this visitor. Even my counselor doesn't know. It was never something I wanted to talk about. It was very personal. And I didn't want anyone to think I was either 1) insane, or 2) feeling superior because of these visits. Only because this blog is anonymous can I share it here.

I'm convinced it's completely human to want to feel special, to feel loved. We need to matter, and as children we need first to matter to our parents. It's from them that we learn whether to love ourselves conditionally or unconditionally. It's from family that we first develop our sense of self-worth.

But from time to time, maybe the Universe can step in and help us out a bit, too. Because we're special? No. Because we're human.

What's up doc? Bad meds, it is.

Friday, before my lunch interview (which went swimmingly!), I saw my med doc. She's not exactly a doc. I need to explain.

God, so much information. How much should I share? How do I summarize?

Three years ago,

No. Okay, so seven years ago, I saw a psychiatrist at the same clinic where I see my counselor (we don't use the word th*r*p*st---that's another story). She didn't like the meds I was taking (prescribed by my medical doc) for depression. She wanted me on an antipsychotic (been there, done that). We'd just had a baby, were still nursing, said no. She flagged our file as a "troublemaker" and we couldn't get in to see another psych doc for four years.

So, three years ago, we get a referral from our counselor to see a med doc. She's fantastic. We really like her. No bedside manner 'tall, but we can intellectualize until the cows come home with her. Then, she leaves the clinic. Now we're rerouted onto a new med doc, but not a real doc, a psychiatric assistant or somesuch and she can write prescriptions. This PA is not as great, but okay. She leaves after 6 months. Another PA. This one we really, really like. She's the first one to say, you've been treated medically for 20+ years for depression with a side of anxiety. How about we try treating anxiety with a side of depression?

What the hell, hey? So she switched up our meds a bit, and it was awesome. It actually kept the PTSD symptoms at bay. Course it did nothing about the DID, but that's okay. We're not looking to off each other, y'know? ;-)

But then she leaves the clinic. Now we have a new PA. This one specializes in PTSD and is the first PA to have a hint about the DID, but I don't think she really knows. And I get the distinct feeling she's on meds too. Sometimes you just know these things. But she's got this agenda about using atypical antipsychotics to treat PTSD. Yeah, there's studies that show it helps some people. We tried one last summer, with disastrous results. We have a long, strong family history of diabetes, and the atypical antipsychotics are notorious for messing with blood sugar, blood pressure, cholesterol, and appetite. A goodly number of people gain weight. There's one thing we don't need.

Anyway. So we see this PTSD-specializing, antipsychotic-supporting PA on Friday, before the interview. And TA comes out and tells her that we're still having trouble sleeping, that the meds we're currently taking for sleep (Ambien, Valerian Root, Melatonin) aren't working as well as they had for the past year or so and it's taking 3-4 hours to get to sleep. If we sleep at all.

Her solution: try another pill. This time Seroquel XR, which she assures us, at the smallest dose works only as a sedative and not as an antipsychotic. TA believes her, says ok, and we take it Friday night.

Well, it did help us sleep. For about eighteen frickin' hours. It also caused the munchies, edema in the lower legs/feet, extreme dizziness, tongue numbness, muscles that wouldn't work correctly, and it totally fucked up emotions. Or did something. Crying at the drop of a hat for no known reason, a totally hopeless helpless certainty feeling.

This wasn't memories. This was bad meds. Trust me, I know what memories look and feel like and this ain't it. And if I'm right, which I know I am, all of these symptoms will be gone by the time the med is out of our physical system.

Truth is, I feel like I kinda fucked up, let the system down this time. Cos I shoulda known this would happen and fought TA and said NO FUCKING WAY are we EVER takin an antipsychotic med EVER again. I wanna march into the PA's office with the leftover meds and slam em down on her desk and say, enough! Man, I'd rather deal with the insomnia. But not everyone would.

Crystal thinks we can do a mind over matter thing, get better that way, and Jess says meditation helps even though I think it's a big waste of time, but maybe they're right. I dunno. We've had the insomnia since forever, since at least the body was four. I remember. Cos that's when D started helpin us get to sleep.

I ain't gonna get into a whole long thing in ths post, but D is somethin like a spirit guide. He ain't one of us, though he's talked to everyone inside at some point or another. His voice comes from outside, not like hearing others inside talk. And before anyone gets on my case about it, our counselor knows about him. She even took the whole matter to her supervisor's supervisor, some pastor or somethin, and they did this whole...shit, Chris help me out, what's it called... differential diagnosis...thanks..on it and he came to the conclusion that we ain't crazy, we're what he'd call a "mystic."

Yeah, Crystal totally dug that. Anyway, D used to do some sort of relaxation thing that helped us get to sleep. Worked until Caitlyn and Kari took over as hosts. Ha!

Not true. It worked for me as well, but Kari won't take help 'tall. Except perhaps from the Stoic, but they're soul-mates. Sorry I buggered in!

So we lost all of today but not cos of any time loss, just the meds, and Chris is all up in arms because we spent $40 on a copay for this "help" from the PA and another $40 on the prescription and it's all for nothing.

AND, I dunno if it makes any difference or not, but no one in the system is takin the Buspar and the Prozac that we wanted to keep cos it was workin. How do you say it's workin when you're not takin it? And hell if I'm gonna tell the PA about it. She can take her antipsychotics and shove em in her happy place.

If that aint enough there's no other PA to see in the clinic, so we gotta play nice. I gotta play nice. She's the one who prescribes the prozac and the buspar and the ambien. And I kinda got trust issues so findin another med doc ain't high on my list right now. Better the devil you know and all that...

God, how come we gotta play the PA in order to keep from gettin screwed? We're supposed to be able to tell her the truth and trust she'll try to help us. Yeah. Great fuckin help. Thanks. That helps us trust.

A'ight, me and Caitlyn are gonna go hang out inside. I'm just gettin madder and that ain't helpin the body get to sleep. Man, all we want is sleep. Restful sleep, y'know? Why is that too much to ask?

Tracy (and Caitlyn!)

Fear of success

Years ago, we started our own business because we wanted to work, to be productive and creative, but we needed the flexibility to work around bouts of debilitating depression, anxiety, PTSD and of course dissociating. We worked part-time, taking time where we needed to. It was good, but not really a means of creating income.

In the past 18 months, everything has changed. Business has grown a mind-boggling 300%. I am planning work projects into 2013. My business is officially now known internationally. This is great. But it's also frightening. It means we have to work harder than ever before on balance, a topic we wrote about earlier.

Tomorrow I'm being interviewed. I fear coming across as a neophyte, a scatter-brained know-nothing, an incompetent fraud. Trying to find that capable, successful perspective inside is really, really hard. It's so easy to put myself down. After all, I learned from the best. (Note heavy sarcasm here.)

I can't work just whenever I want to, like I did even a year or two ago. I have to set, and keep, structured business house. I have to keep it together. We have to work together like we never have before. We have the opportunity to be successful beyond our wildest dreams (note that success does not necessarily mean "rich" except perhaps in experience and wisdom). And perhaps it is that opportunity that has us scared.

We also must remember that we are not alone. We have colleagues who are wonderfully supportive and happy to help others succeed. We have IRL friends. We have our husband and children, our faith community, and vast resources through the Internet.

And on a spiritual level, we have support as well. But that will have to wait for another post.

Did you feel that?

I was reading an email and was immediately overwhelmed with strong emotion and a topic. I thought, "you can write about that on the blog, just as soon as I take my nighttime meds." I logged into the blog, and before it even processed my login, the feeling was gone, and along with it, any knowledge of what it was about.

I hate that.

It's not even like I can try to remember. I don't even know what the emotion was, much less what it was about. I only know it was strong.

Who does that? Who feels something strongly and then, seconds later, has no idea what the feeling was? It's because of stuff like this that I feel I can't trust myself: my feelings, my memories, my thoughts. It's easier just letting other people (IRL) decide for me, because at least they'll remember what I'm supposed to feel.

Bucking the system (literally)

I have to write this tonight for the very reason that I'm not supposed to.

Did that make sense? Okay, here's the thing: we're Jewish, but different alters' observance of Jewish law ranges from "That's not where I am now" to "I practically graduated from rabbinical school." And this is Friday night, the beginning of the Jewish sabbath (shabbat) and writing is one of the things prohibited on shabbat.

We were going to do candle-lighting and make Kiddush and the whole shabbat dinner thing except we don't have anything to cook and Chris has been working really hard and the body is exhausted. Then comes the guilt: what are we teaching our children? When they're adults will they have any memories of family shabbat dinners? I'm a bad mom to not honor this part of our lives now. Maybe God will punish me. Maybe He already has. Maybe there's just something wrong with me.

We've talked with our friend J about how Judaism allows for flexibility, and flexible we are being lately. We used to do so well, keeping kosher and observing shabbat and going to synagogue every Saturday. Lately many of us are too exhausted to do shabbat dinner and don't want to get up early for synagogue (it's already 2am as I write this).

But the more observant within argue, we aren't supposed to feel it and then do it. We're supposed to do it and then feel it. Kind of a "fake it until you make it" idea. Or, as I am being prodded to write, follow in the example of the Israelites in Exodus 24:7 when they say, “Naaseh v'nishma.” --- We will do first, and afterwards, understand.

And so there is conflict. Shabbat dinner and evening is supposed to be about resting from the creation of the week, about taking a day to enjoy the fruits of one's labors, about spending time with family and friends in song and prayer and study and introspection. It's supposed to be pleasant. But this fighting inside, this we-have-to attitude is sucking all the fun out of it. Just thinking about going to synagogue cranks the anxiety level way up, and there's a sense that if we can't do it all, why bother doing any of it? If we're going to violate shabbat in one way, there's no point in trying to observe it in others.

An elder at synagogue said many years ago that he didn't understand, when he asked a woman (not me) to take an aliyah -- to say a blessing over the Torah -- during services, she said she couldn't because she didn't light candles the night before. And this elder spent most of his life Orthodox! I try to take his words to heart, but there is this wall. The longer we go without making shabbat or going to synagogue, the harder it is, and at the same time if we force ourselves to do/go, then we resent it later.

And so I just rebel. Not quite in the eating a ham and cheese sandwich on Yom Kippur sort of way, but rebelling, against Jewish observance and my internal system simultaneously.

I don't know where to take this. I don't know where to go from here. I keep thinking that next week, I'll feel differently and we can do shabbat again. And then next week comes and it's just as bad. I want the joy, the peace, the restfulness that shabbat always brought before, but not if it's going to tear me apart in the meantime.

There's a whole other spiritual piece here, too, that I just can't get into right now because it's late and I'm tired and it's just too much to add to this post. It needs its own post --- or ten. But suffice it to say, we have it on good authority that the Universe would like to see us back in that peaceful, restful, joyous place, and will ultimately succeed in getting us to admit, however grudgingly, that our particular path to peace and joy is a Jewish one.

I'm still going to write this. And I still want to sleep in tomorrow.

~Shea

Expressive Arts Carnival

Although new to blogging, we feel fortunate to have found other multiples and those who are supportive, here on the web. One of the sites we value is Mind Parts, and this month, Paul of Mind Parts is hosting the second Expressive Arts Carnival. The assignment: to create an abstract art piece through any visual means that depicts all or part of the internal world.

Here is our submission, and an explanation below:

We have a special room inside we call the library. It's quite possibly a cliché, but it's ours. A brightly-lit fireplace, always burning as if it's the spark to our soul, flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Knowledge is power. Above the fireplace, a view of much of the rest of inside: hallways leading to our individual rooms, where we can close the door to the world. Yet we are never really alone. Always there are those inside who watch and wait. And alone, in the spotlight, the child we were, the innocence we lost. Despite the warmth of the fire, the lure of retreat and sweet oblivion, there is pain. A bloody hand print, evoking a sudden gasp, a gut-clenching aversion that leaves its stamp on our reality. To survive, we had to rally together, the inner family.

Weary

I am so tired. I know I'm burned out, too, but specifically today, I'm just tired. I haven't slept well in days, awakened from the grips of several nightmares that I can't remember by the time I've thought to write them down in our journal. My anxiety level is through the roof. Phone calls leave me shaking. I'm so certain someone is unhappy with me for something. Anything.

Shea was sounding so hopeful yesterday, and she got a lot done in my absence. I thank her for that. And now I'm here and I'm just bone tired and I have financial reports to run for work and the kids are downstairs and I'm dog-sitting a friend's dog today and tomorrow all I want to do is sleep.

I'd love to just let Shea or Jessica back out, though I don't think Jess knows how to run the reports, but 1) I'm not exactly sure how to do that anymore, and 2) it seems like avoiding responsibility if I let someone else take over.

My (outside) friend J knows about "us" and has met a lot of us. Her take on it is that each of us inside has different talents and strengths, and so it's actually healthy to allow switching to use and draw upon those talents and strengths. I guess I've been in too many DID therapy settings where switching was considered unhealthy, no matter the reason, and the goal was to have one consistent host. For a long time that has been me, maybe because I'm the oldest female inside.

But I'm tired and I hurt (fibromyalgia) and I'm anxious and I'm burned out and it's really, really hard to even care anymore. I own a business (because it's really bad news if I'm working in a typical corporate setting--I've tried) and I can't bring myself to get excited about it. And that's really sad, because we got an incredible review of our work yesterday and there's a marketing opportunity there (and a limited-time window) and I can't even collect enough energy to be happy about it.

As they say, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, and I just want it to go away.

-Chris

The most mundane thing becomes a battle when you have DID

***Language warning: this post may (naw, will) contain language that may be considered inappropriate for children (inside or outside) under the age of 14. Or 17. Or whatever the frig.***

Took the kiddos and the dog for a walk today. Nice, normal thing, right? Like every other parent with kids who don't hate being around them and a dog that can lay a guilt trip by looking longingly at his leash. No. Big. Deal.

'Cept when you have DID it is a big deal. Or a Big Deal, as Shea likes to write, cuz she likes to use capitals in Weird Places. Ha.

So we're walkin maybe six blocks to a gas station, gettin a snack, and walkin back. Like a totally freakin normal person. In 90° weather, but hey, that's a whole 'nother issue.

Ok, so there's this one real busy street we have to cross. We got the crosswalk. We got cute kiddos tryin in their cute kid way to wave down traffic so we can cross the street. We got the dog, the master of guilt trips, tongue hangin out Odie-style. Y'know, it's state law that drivers have to stop for people waitin in a crosswalk. But no one cares. Unless you're the one tryin to cross.

Somethin like ten cars go by before there's a break, and we make a run for it. The car comin up, which was waaaay down the street but sped up as soon as we got in the crosswalk, whooshed by about a foot away from me in the freakin crosswalk.

I'm thinkin, hey fuckers, where the hell do you have to be so fast that you're gonna run down a mom and her kids and her dog? Can't you see the innocence (at least in the dog's eyes), the epitome of family values that has long been mourned? Can't you FUCKING SLOW DOWN???

Right, cos it's my job to protect the Family and I do it in my own charming way, but trust me on this: I get it done. No doubt. I get it done.

Well, this gets others inside all riled up, cos now I've apparently started either a party or a war and either way, they want in. The car's long gone, of course, sped off to almost-hit some other living icon of integrity and modesty.

We get our snacks and the dog waits mostly patiently, hooked up to a dog leash cable on the side of the building. I don't deal with the gettin the food part cos I'm pissed about the driver and I know my smile will look scary to the clerk. So Shea takes over. Ok, cool, no problem.

On the way home, this tiny is-it-really-a dog comes boundin out of its backyard to come play with our dog. 'S cool, cos we take our dog to dog parks and stuff so he gets socialized, and he ain't gonna bite another dog unless he gets attacked first. This little dog could maybe take on a dung beetle.Then the dog owners come out, a man maybe in his 40's and another guy looks like his father.

Father growls at the Bittydog, "You come her right now or I'm gonna beat your ass! Get over here! I swear I'll beat your goddamn fuckin ass." He finally grabs the dog and we're afraid he's gonna beat the dog in front of us. Or worse, start beating someone else.

"Yeah, that's right," the son says. "Threaten the dog in front of little kids. Important educational moment of the day." He turns to me and apologizes. Shea says something sweet, how it's no problem, how that's why we take the dog to the dog park so he can socialize with other dogs and stuff. We walk on, hearing the abusive language from the dad continue into the house.

The kids are kinda scared and say they don't like the way that man treated his dog. Yeah, we didn't like it either, but what can we do? That will not put us in danger? Remember, little kiddos, guilt-trip meister dog, dissociating mother... giving this man a lesson in animal respect seems like a Bad Idea, to use Shea's capitals.

We walk on. And now Angry Woman has made herself the life of the party. She thinks it'd be a really cool idea to follow the car driver and the dog owner beyond our encounter and see what they really thought of us. Kind of like a hidden camera, cept there's no camera and she could be makin it all up. But once she's started this movie, I can't really make it stop. All I can do is get the Little Ones into their rooms or with a responsible adult (hahaha) cos they're the ones who will hurt the most with these games. They always are.

Gift #1 she gives us the driver. Doesn't see us, doesn't see the cute kids, the goofy dog, the waving to slow him down until it's too late. "Wait for a fucking break in traffic!" he yells at us through his windshield. "Idiots! Don't you know you cross when the road is clear. Why the fuck in front of me? Well, I'll teach her a lesson." ===swooshes=== past me, takes a last look at the four of us running up onto the curb. "Fuckin bitch," he growls as he speeds off.

Gift #2 she gives us the dog-hating dad. Scared our ferocious guilt-inducing, tongue-lolling goofy dog will do harm to his babykins, he wants the dog back inside NOW. And he gets what he wants with threats of violence. Been that way all his life and it always works. He comes out, threatens the dog, gets him back inside, but no thanks to the fat bitch mother who's standing clueless on the sidewalk, or her two evil offspring who don't have an ounce of sense between the two of em. She tells one kid to keep walkin with the dog, like that's gonna help. Then she gets a clue and keeps walkin, best as her fat ugly body will keep up with her. Fat cow. She's probably poor, too. People like her shouldn't have kids or own dogs. Or houses. Or be allowed to walk on the sidewalk. Pfft. Good riddance.

I did a pretty good job of protection. We got through that mostly unscathed. Then a little later, we got an email with a glowing recommendation of our work that's just been published to the Internet. Just really really nice. Shea cried. And then Angry Woman stepped in again, with this gem of support:

"Those are some very nice things said about you, but don't let it go to your head. It's just one person's opinion. There's no guarantee this will help your business any. You can't rest on your laurels here. And remember you have a husband and children who depend on you , and you can't be there for them if you're off chasing your dreams. Better to have a more secure backup plan. Besides, probably no one will read that review, and if they do, they'll think the reviewer knows you. They're nice words, but that's all they are. You need to stop admiring yourself and take care of those around you."

The scary thing is that we all, internally, agreed that these very words had, in some permutation, indeed come from our mother's mouth.

We're fightin Angry Woman's words, but there's still a shred of truth buried in there, whether it's havin heard criticisms and knockdowns all our life, or natural self-doubt that, without her to amplify it, would be totally normal.

By the time we got home, the kiddos were hot, the dog was hot and sheddin hair all over Pig-Pen style, and we felt like if we didn't get it together and focus and do something productive, we were gonna internalize the fuckin fat cow bitch comments or the you have no right to feel good comments, and someone was gonna start wantin to cut or self-harm in some way.

So we updated a very old bank account, makin entries, reconciling many months, and before long, the walk was just a bad dream. Until the next thing comes up. And then I'll still be ready. Cos it's what I do.

Tracy

RKG8CZVE7H2M

Balance

When I look at my life--what I remember of it anyway--it seems hopelessly out of balance. Like a 3D pendulum with many many points, it is like my energy and efforts are directed at one area to the detriment of all others. I'm a mom, but my work and friendships and marriage and personal interests appear to go neglected. I'm a business owner, but then I feel like I'm being a "bad mom." (Even though my parenting is 180° from what I grew up with.) I keep the house spotless but nothing else gets done.

Can you see where I'm going with this?

Everyone in my life (outside) says differently. They ask me occasionally how I do it all: kids, husband, work, house, yard, pets, friends, volunteering, etc. I joke that I don't sleep. But deep down, I wonder how it is that they don't see what I see so clearly: I'm failing at everything.

And then yesterday I got an email from an acquaintance who makes a decent living as a business coach for business owners, particularly those who work from home, and especially particularly those who are also dealing with other life challenges like ADHD, OCD, and other anxieties. It kind of seemed like a match made in heaven.

So, the email. The email was talking about self-fulfilling prophecies. Like, if you think that you're terrible at marketing your business, you tend to shy away from it, thus your business doesn't grow, thus you come to the conclusion it's because you're terrible at marketing. I actually know I'm not terrible at marketing, but it's not my favorite topic. And because of recurring, sometimes debilitating PTSD, depression, anxiety, and of course the fact that I can't guarantee someone will be out who knows how to run the business, I shy away from phone and face-to-face contact.

But back to the email. I started thinking of this same kind of thinking in terms of balance. I've said for years that I'm terrible at balancing all these things in my life. But what if the very thought that I'm "unbalanced" leads me to feel like I'm out of balance?

What if (gasp!) all these other people are right? What if I (well, we) am actually a really good balancer? What if in spite of--or perhaps because of my DID, I'm doing a great job?

It's something to think about.

~Shea

I'm supposed to be sleeping

but I'm not sleepy yet. I took all the body's nighttime meds, which includes sleeping meds, and I promised T (husband) that I would stay out to make sure the meds effects didn't get all wonky on other alters. Apparently one of them fell off the bed recently. And it's a tall sort of bed!

So I'm here and waiting to feel sleepy but I'm not so I'm checking out blogs and email and all manner of things to keep me awake and active and sucked into the dreaded Screen Time. Which will totally help me fall asleep, right? Of course right!

Oh, and I just started playing some energizing, inspirational songs, so that will help too. (hee hee)

Chris finally went inside and said she was going to sleep. She woke once, briefly, to remind me to prepare a contract for a potential client so it can be sent on Tuesday. Always work, with that one. I like to play, too. Like, sending your outside kids out to the car to get their library books, and then when they open the door, *bam!* hit the panic key on the key fob and see what happens. Kids running, hands over their ears, looking panicked "What did I do???" until they saw me with the key fob and a big smile. Then they got kind of funny-mad and shook their fingers at me in admonishment. It was too cute!

So why am I here, on this blog, not like, here in this body or here in this world. I guess I wanted to say hi. I hadn't written yet and I'm sitting in bed and the laptop is right here... so.... Hi!

~Shea

Sometimes I don't make sense

Got in the car this afternoon to drive the (outer, in real life [IRL]) family out to lunch. While backing out of the garage, I was suddenly overcome by... well, it's really hard to describe, but... suddenly feeling like someone else.

Like we were so close, I could feel what he (yes, he) felt. Like sudden passion for things that didn't interest me one bit only seconds before. A swell of emotions, a weird kind of pressure through my body. I had to stop the car and close my eyes, chase whoever it was. Because while the feelings were familiar---I've "met" him before---I don't actually know who he is. Or how to talk to him, or how to get him to come out. I don't even know his name.

And then, just as quickly as he was there, he was gone. I checked with others inside that I can talk to easily. Shea has worked together with him, had limited co-consciousness when working on specific tasks, but she doesn't know his name or who he is either.

What I do know is that he's not from childhood. He's more recent, maybe the past 15 years or so. Did we create a new alter 15 years ago that I don't know about? How? How did we do that?

We did it for grad school, when we needed someone for a very specific course of study and we needed not to be triggered. Leslie was with us for a few years, came out for work and nothing else, and then was kind of quietly reabsorbed by the system when we no longer held that type of job. We were all ok with that.

But this? It's baffling.

I feel like I'm a whole person. I have medical problems that others in the system don't have. I have a way of doing things that others don't. And it frustrates me to no end when they mess up my systems for doing things, like paying the bills. At the same time, if I'm having a hard time opening a jar, I can ask John for help. He can usually open it. Sometimes I can get help from someone inside who's left-handed (I'm right-handed). It's like doing hand-over-hand exercises that one might do with a young child or in physical therapy, except his hand is inside mine. And his muscles are stronger. Almost like he puts on my hand as a glove.

I know, it doesn't really make sense to me, either. Except that it does, sort of. It's my life.

So, after sending Shea to chase down whoever came close to me in the driveway, I continued the drive to lunch, and realized that my vision wasn't doing very well. It's been flaky for a while now. I really have to get my vision checked, except that I think it's my eyes, not the body's eyes. How do I explain that to the ophthalmologist? Fortunately, Liam offered to drive, and after he took over (and moved the seat back and adjusted the rear view mirror---which means I have to adjust it back again), I peeked out and he could see just fine. Of course he could. Grr.

Lunch went fine. I actually remember all of it. And I asked my husband on the way home if he'd noticed any switching. Oh yes, he said. Someone else drove us to lunch, he said. I asked how he could tell. "Posture, driving style, the set of the face," he said. "And energy. Definitely male."

When I asked him to clarify a bit more, he said, "There's just a distinct difference between masculine energy and feminine energy. Yours is feminine. On the way to lunch, it was definitely masculine. No question."

I could sense TA nearby and heard/felt her question, "How can I make up masculine energy? How can I make this up if I don't know what I'm doing?" TA still doesn't accept the multiplicity, even after nearly 20 years. We cornered her one time and told her that if she was making us all up, she could un-make us, too. And then we didn't let her out for over a week. We kept saying, if you're in control, if you're making it all up, you should have control of your body, your memory, even your wallet. And then we had a field day in the mall, just to make a point. She accepted us for a while, but then she seemed to reject us again.

I know, it doesn't make sense to me, either. Except it does, sort of.

Now I'm back home and I'm bone-tired. I have work to do. Work-work, as opposed to housework or yardwork, that I wanted to have done before business hours open on Tuesday. But I'm so tired. I can't concentrate. All I want to do right now is sleep.

-Chris

Who We Are

When we were first diagnosed, there were a lot of us. We did years of intensive therapy, including programs specifically for people with DID. Many of the smaller parts integrated (what we used to call the i-word). A few of the more complete¹ alters² integrated, too, though we still see hints of them in those of us who remain.

We have done temporary integrations, what we like to call The Alliance, wherein many of us will work together as one. This is particularly useful on the outside: at work, with friends who don't know us as an "us," even with our outside kids. Eventually, it falls apart. But I digress.

***THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS WORDS THAT MAY BE POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING***

Those who are most like to write or be referred to here are, in alphabetical order (no hurt feelings):

• Adrian (male, unknown age): used to be named Nasty, and tormented the Little Ones on the inside. Now functions as a protector.
  
• Angry Woman (female, unknown age): like a non-DID person's self-criticism and self-doubt cranked up to the nth degree. She finds fault with everything we say or do.
• Caitlin (female, 20's): musician, singer/songwriter. British. Was co-host with Kari in college.
  
• Chris (female, 30's): mother-figure, business-oriented, always practical. Suffers from fibromyalgia, OCD & workaholism. Has been host the longest in adulthood. Frequently co-hosts with Shea.
  
• Constance (female, 20's): the "cheery maid," she enjoys cleaning the house and making it presentable.
• Crystal (female, 20's): very spiritual and attuned to energy manipulation and healing, stones, totems, reincarnation, angels, and spirit guides.
  
• Jessica (female, 14): used to call herself No One, but has perhaps come the farthest in healing. She is known for being able to see truth in the midst of complexity, and enjoys being a teenager.
  
• John (male, 40's): father figure, recovering alcoholic (though the body is not). Oftentimes the voice of reason and sanity in an otherwise chaotic world.
• Kari (female, 20's): sees herself as a freedom fighter in a never-ending war. The only alter who can function well without sleep or food for long periods. Works closely with the Stoic.
  
• Laura (female, 7): holds most of the incest memories. Her twin sister, Kim, is a happy-go-lucky child.
  
• Liam (male, 40's): Scottish. Drives the car when the Little Ones are out. Loves to drive on winding country roads and tinker with the car.
  
• Little Ones (various): now generally speaking as one, the Little Ones are the small child alters, all younger than seven.
• Rebekah (female, 19): Jewish, religiously observant, loves to learn Talmud, believes that our soul is Jewish. Highly wary of Christian proselytizing
• Shea (female, 30's): fun-loving, loves to write stories and poetry, was primary host through graduate school, interested in psychology, education, human motivation.
• Stoic (male, 30's): para-military, very good with mechanics, prides himself on being able to control and even eliminate emotion. Sees himself in the same war as Kari.
  
• TA (female, 40's): holds all of the good memories from childhood and doesn't believe there was ever any abuse or that we're DID. Super skeptical about anything that can't be explained by hard science.
• Tina (female, 20's): our "artist in residence." Loves to draw and paint and work on graphic design.
  
• Tracy (female, 16): primary protector. Known for telling it like it is and being unapologetic for her language.

One thing we've learned: the size of the system (number of alters) is not necessarily proportional to the amount or severity of abuse or trauma experienced. Each system is different and creates the alters it needs to create to survive.

In our case, all but two of the alters named above (Kim and TA) have experienced trauma: physical, sexual, and verbal abuse at the hands of the parents and two babysitters; multiple sexual assaults; and what we can only describe as religious abuse: some very passionate Christian fundamentalists who thought that showing what Hell was like to a bunch of little kids in a home Bible school would scare them into being good Christians.

The thing is, while we were born from trauma, we are not our memories. Sure, our memories have shaped our perspectives, our fears. But because we were able to switch³ and not let any one alter experience everything we've lived through, we've been able to help each other, support each other, feel compassion for each other. It wasn't always like this; it took many years of therapy to get where we are now. And we're still trying to get better.

Will full integration be the final goal? Don't know. We managed to create an Alliance, a sort of mask behind which we all tried to work together, that lasted for several years, more or less. But when one of the parents died, it fell apart. And we're realizing that we're actually healthier when we allow switching and encourage co-consciousness⁴ than we are when we try to all act as one. So who knows...

---

1. Complete here means having a more complete personality: likes, dislikes, posture, manner of speaking, self-image, etc. Not just a holder of specific memories.

2. Alters is a word often used to describe the various "ego-states" or personalities or parts in a DID system. We didn't like "parts" because many felt that they were complete people, not just a part of someone else. Alters works for us. Besides, then we can joke about an "alter ego" having done something...and it's true!

3. Switching refers to the act of shifting from one alter to another. In our system, whoever is currently in control of the body is said to be "out" while everyone else is inside.

4. Co-consciousness is when one or more alters inside are aware of what's going on outside: who's out, what they're saying and doing, where they parked the car...

Why on earth a blog?!

We decided, at long last, to start a blog. Why? Because we're convinced it will help in our healing. And maybe, while we're at it, we can fight the stigma and myths that have surrounded DID for years.

We haven't worked all the kinks out yet, so please be patient. Among other things, we're trying to figure out how best to post. How much info to share. Having one official "blogger" or each having their own voice.

Ok, apparently own voices is winning by a long shot. So now, in different fonts? Colors? Just names?

Geez. Tracy here, for whoever actually reads this crap. You don't have to make it so f-ing complicated. Just let us say what we want to say, however we want to say it. Yeah, yeah, as long as it doesn't violate terms of service or whatever. It doesn't have to replace the journals, just stuff we can share with the world, y'know? And hey, if people learn that this is real and we ain't makin it up and this ain't no false memories bullsh*t (I'm bein nice with my words, see), then all the better. Just LET GO and stop tryin to control everything. K?

Uh... Ok. I guess what we do need is some sort of brief description of who might be writing here. I think I'll do that in a separate post. And now Tracy's mad at me. What can I say? I'm the planner, the practical one. My name's Chris (female). We'll introduce ourselves in the next post.