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!)

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