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

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.

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

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...