Pretty Please, with sugar on top ~or~ Wild Child part 2

 

I did have to go to court in L.A. one day when I was in my twenties. And I made it through ok. But the build up to that day was scary. Because I didn’t always remember that I had DID, and hadn’t yet been diagnosed; so some parts of me knew I had to contend with other, inappropriate people taking over, and some parts of me were completely oblivious. And some parts of me didn’t give a shit.

I don’t know if I was supposed to go to court the day I went to the beach with Ken. Maybe I was supposed to go to school. Or work. Maybe I was supposed to pay my school tuition, or take someone somewhere after work, or meet someone for dinner. Maybe I had nothing at all planned. But I spontaneously went with him somewhere I hadn’t planned, and we had fun, and then got into an accident, followed by a serious make-out session. This might be a typical situation for an average person – go have a spontaneous day of fun. But for me it used to be dangerous. Because of what happened with Ken that day – the accident, and the intimacy.

I would like to say I can handle myself in situations. I always have been able to. But honestly, I don’t always handle the situation the way I would LIKE to handle it. There is a reckless side to me that used to come out and play. She hasn’t come out in a while, because the rest of us have done this “lock down” thing with her. And I’m not even sure to what degree she has been reckless. I have some ideas in my head, some things that I’m not quite sure are memories. Maybe the information in there is from a Sweet Valley High book I read in junior high. Maybe I had a dream one night, and I’ve walked around the rest of my life thinking it was a real situation instead of a dream. It’s hard to know when you have this condition.

But I do have ideas about the beach. Worries. Fears that maybe I hooked up with someone when I was in junior high and had a night of unprotected sex. And I seem to have ideas about meeting up with someone in a hotel, or an apartment he rented, and memories of a guy with a moped, and rainy nights in that boy’s arms. Who knows? If I could pretend I was in a band, I would just chalk all of this up to drugs and alcohol, and really good times that you can’t remember. But at least then I would have chosen these situations consciously. There is something terribly creepy about one personality in my system choosing to do reckless and possibly dangerous things that could hurt all of us, while the rest of us sit by and worry that we are going to be killed in a fit of passion or idiocy. And then the rest of us decide to forget, or pretend it didn’t happen, while we strangle hold the reckless child and lock her in a basement.

I mean, there’s no harm done, realistically. I never got pregnant. I never got an infectious disease. I never had to hitch-hike home from somewhere horrible. (that I can remember) But this is obviously why I had to do the lock down. Because things COULD have happened. I have gotten myself into some stupid and dangerous situations, and have managed to get out of them alive. But I don’t always remember HOW I got out of them. Did I smooth talk my way out? Sleep my way out? Fight my way out? Was it really not as dangerous as it seemed at the time? Should I still be mad at myself for letting myself get into those situations, or praise myself for getting out of them? Or was I in them to begin with, because maybe I made it all up?

The point is, I never have been able to be sure how I would respond. Life is full of surprises. You go to the bank to make a deposit, and the bank gets robbed. You stand in line to get a burger, and a drive by shooting leaves you one friend short. You can’t predict things. For me, that has just meant that if something bad, scary, strange, interesting, dangerous, exciting or unexpected happens, I never know WHO in my system might react to it. And if someone reckless comes out to deal with the situation (which seriously hasn’t happened in a long long while), how long will they be out, and how much damage will they do?

…….

 

Interestingly enough, since working on these blogs I have been contacted by a friend from my past, who was also Ken’s best friend. Random, that he should befriend me on Facebook now, as I’m looking at this time in my life. And I came home and bawled.

This week, looking at this time in my past has been difficult. I’ve relived the scary emotions I had back then, which will be other posts in the future. I’ve remembered disconnect and loneliness, isolation and homelessness. I’ve remembered crazy and dark and fearful. Invisible, empty and uncertain. But maybe that’s not my big issue. Maybe all of this has been emotional and difficult for me because of Ken. I truly fell for him, and we spent time together, and had this spark that never went away. He made plans with me, made comments that implied he wanted to get serious with me – like, SERIOUS – only to move on to an ex-girlfriend before anyone even knew we had something going. But we still had something going anyway. Our relationship didn’t continue when he got married to his ex, but the spark did. Whenever we were around each other we clicked, and people would look at us funny like they’d missed part of a joke. His wife even watched me with heavy eyes, as though she weren’t sure about the situation. There wasn’t anything going on, we never even had sex. But there was some connection we had, and maybe that’s my issue.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of only ever being the almost lover. I’ve dated and loved and been loved. But more often, I have loved and waited and worried and wondered and remained an almost lover. I have watched as relationships started and blossomed, and promised me something potentially wonderful, only to have the whole thing disintegrate before I even get a chance to embrace it. It’s like a snowflake in my hand, melting away before my eyes, without me even having the opportunity to see its beauty, or appreciate the wonder of it. I’ve lost many lovers this way. Men that I dreamt would be an ideal mate. Men that were possibilities but not realities. Some were men that I had intense and long relationships with. One of them was my best friend for ten years, and really when we went our separate ways, it felt like a divorce. We had shared so many intimate moments and emotions, old scars and secrets, vacations and holidays and worries. We told each other everything, and did everything together. Losing him was the worst breakup ever, and we’d never even kissed.

Is this the life I am destined for? Like a character out of the Age of Innocence, am I forever slated to play the part of the sore hearted? The one that men want to touch and want to love, but never do? Am I the woman that will always be smiling and loving, supporting and understanding, knowing what she wants and never able to tighten her grip on it? Will I always be on the outside looking in?

Gods I hope not. But when I look back at that time in California, the outside is all I ever knew. Other people seemed able to have love and relationships, and friends and real connections. I seemed to only be on the outside. I had lots of friends, and participated in lots of social activities. But I didn’t belong to anyone. I was away from my family, and didn’t ever feel connected to them anyway, and in this huge bustling city of Long Beach, there were so many people that didn’t know me, didn’t want to know me, and wouldn’t care if I disappeared. I had friends, yes, but they weren’t obligated to care about me or love me. I didn’t have anyone that needed me, or anyone that I could need. I was a runaway, with a pasted on smile and a lot of silliness that fooled everyone into thinking I was normal. But I was a runaway still.

So here I am all these years later, tired of running, and deciding to plant my feet firmly into the now. My old me’s keep popping up to haunt me. Or maybe more accurately, they are just standing up to be counted. So I’m glad for that, and I try to acknowledge them as they pop up. But it is hard. Difficult. Saddening. It makes me feel regret and loneliness. It touches old wounds like isolation and madness, and stirs them up silly, until they feel like they want to bleed again. Ok, so bleed if you will. It’s a part of who I am; but only a PART. There are many other parts that are hopeful, and strong, creative and determined, and ready for LOVE. So yeah, maybe I have a Wild Child buried in my closet of people. Maybe I have hang-ups and questions about what she did, what her history is, and what sad and horrible feelings she has tucked away. But maybe the rest of me can hold onto my collective belief in LOVE long enough to bring it to life around me. Maybe LOVE will come to me finally, and allow me to hold it in my arms for longer than not long. Maybe the crazies in me and the wild ones in me will all agree to be at the same place at the same time for once, and finally let LOVE in. And maybe, if I say pretty please with sugar on top, maybe LOVE will stay.

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About denelle

writer. artist. ponderer.

Posted on July 22, 2010, in biographical, MPD and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. I hope the best for you.

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