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dead

if i were to talk about my killing
what would i say?
what could i tell that would
alleviate the pain of
my ghost’s
soul?
what song would set me free
and find me flying
finally
to heaven?
what tricky story would wind
its legs around you
and run me far from
the smoking clutches of hell?
if i told you about
the day i was killed
and the way i was killed
truth would leak from this
crafted monastery of deception
and the whole of me
would crumble
and be lost on the
wind.

dead.   by denelle hobbs

*note*  this is NOT the poem i mentioned in a recent blogpost  “This girl might have been lost…”   that poem i am still looking for, but found this one today so thought i’d put this up instead

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Mexico: (v.1) “This girl might have been lost…”

This post is going to go in Mexico’s page, in the Girls section after it appears here.

*Disclaimer*   Feel free – anyone who doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing – to un-follow this blog.  It’s potentially going to be weirder than a SI.FI movie (though notably, maybe not as weird as Sharknado; c’mon).

The following posting here is a journal entry from 2009.  I have been working on a memoir for some years now, and am plugging away at finishing that off.  But have also another book I started working on in 2009, and this entry came up after doing some work for that book.

Generally speaking – at least in my case – having Multiple Personality Disorder … dealing with these aspects of myself just constantly brings up trauma I have been trying to avoid looking at for my entire life.  Please bear with annoying repetitive stories.

The people listed in the journal entry are several of my “alters” or other personalities/sides that I have been discovering.  Some have given themselves names back when I was a little bitty thing, some I have dolled out a name or position to for want of something else to call them.  Several of the names here were found in a coloring book, each alternate person claiming a piece of work by signing their name in cornflower blue or Indian red.  Anyway…this is the beginning of Mexico’s story…

6.8.09

i’ve started writing “(potential title of memoir style book here)”.
it smells like shit.
it smells like cat shit outside my window, or else one of my cat’s just shat.

now i have a headache, and my jaw aches, and i had to take 3 ginger chews because of my stomache.
i know i need to look at this stuff. i’m trying. but people get fucking NERVOUS!

today i did a picture project.
i looked through a bunch of old pictures and developed piles that i thought looked like different me’s.
a pile of little ‘tiger’s
a pile of denny’s ( i think it was denny, she’s so cute and jodie foster)
there was nellie bly,
and nervous nellie
and cindy or christy who is really a precious little thing
and the eraser.

my sister even recognized the eraser. i told her it was her, and when she saw the last picture (of the group) she said “yep”.
she could tell that pictures of denny were different than pictures of the other girls, not just because the hair was different, but other things. she totally saw it.

nervous nellie seems to be the only one with a big flat spot on her forehead. i guess i must have wrote the ‘shooting myself’ poem about her.  (i’ll try to remember to put this poem up later…)

several pictures that i found i cannot find names for.
and there are names still that i haven’t determined a face for.
scritchy.  little bird.   sandi.

but most disturbing of all is a singular picture of a girl i didn’t recognize. all of these pictures i’ve seen a million times. i’ve seen them in photo albums while i was growing up, or at gramma’s or uncle john’s, and at my own house once they’d been passed on to me.
so i’ve seen this picture before.
but i don’t know the girl.
everyone else i recognized.
oh i didn’t necessarily know the name of the person, but i recognized the eyes, or the expression, or something about the way the person stood, and i could say – even if i didn’t know the name – here, this picture goes with all of these other pictures of that girl.
there are some pictures that are of no one. there is just no one there, and so it is a generic body or a generic girl that is there. tobie said maybe that is after the eraser has come through. so that might be. or maybe the downloader is a separate person than the eraser, and those are pictures of the downloader. i don’t know.

i just know that this one picture of this one girl sort of shocked me. everyone else rang out in my ‘self’ as a me, something familiar, even if old and lost. something recognizable.

this girl wasn’t recognized.
this girl might have been lost.
perhaps she has disappeared.
perhaps she is the poster girl for all the times i’ve been missing:  in pictures at school, when yearbooks get signed, when parts of my life mysteriously go missing. maybe she is one of those milk bottle children who go away and are never seen again.

i don’t know who she is.
but she hurt my heart today.

 

hidey holes and such

Thank you to all of you who have started following my blog since the post “Flying Ford Anglia” was posted.  I’m glad you all enjoyed the post and started following, but a fair warning…you may not know what you’ve gotten yourself into.

I like to write, and I like to imagine myself a writer, and sometime I manage to come up with something that is witty or curious or just off the wall enough to make someone laugh.  However, this blog isn’t all full of crafted phrases and thought out ideas; it isn’t always something that deserves a thumbs’ up or a LIKE.  It is full of angst and swear words; crabby responses that can’t be voiced in front of a real person; minor ponderings of a soul gone astray.  It may interest you, it may not; but I wanted to let you know right off that it is ALL over the place.

But primarily, this blog is about my struggle and/or ease finding happiness in a crazy mixed up world.  This world is so chaotic now – what with random terrorism being more common place than shocking, and children mowing down their playmates with semi-automatics.  I don’t really know how anyone manages to go through this life without an occasional panic-attack, but I’ve been assured by some that they’ve never experienced one.

Not true for me.  In fact, lately I’ve been having all kinds of anxiety.  My heart pounds in my throat, and I can’t sleep through the night.  I’ve developed dark circles under my eyes, and l have a haunted face that I wear around the house.  You probably can’t tell this when I’m at work; I try hard to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on.  I smile and laugh and offer friendly service.  I go out of my way to help or nag, and sometimes complain about people that annoy me.  But inside lately is a belly of acidic juices churning to the beat of grumpy music.  Inside I’m a bucket of nerves that are like little live wires cut free from the electrical pole, squirming around, sparks a’ flyin.  I walk around looking like a normal (albeit odd) adult human being, but inside I’m raw and just a little thing.  In fact, I’m scared to death.

I sort of suspect that this is because of the third grade.  For those of you new to my scene, I have multiple personality disorder, and I’m struggling with working through that rather large can of worms.  Presently the worms are all coming from third grade, I think.

Third grade is an elusive situation.  I can’t really remember anything.  I have pretty much blocked the whole year out, and know only primary basics; like we lived with my grandmother that year, and my older sister chose to sleep and hang out in the garage, up in a pile of boxes that were stacked on top of each other reaching almost to the top of the garage ceiling.  We had moved out of a house we were renting, and whatever we could stuff of our belongings went into my gran’s garage, and my older sister buried herself in there like some kind of little mouse nestled in wood shavings.  And I only know this fact because she recently told me about it.

The stuff I know from that year in my life is that I was sleep walking a lot, and the next year I developed an ulcer, chronic headaches, nose bleeds, and asthma.  And the fact that pretty much the whole year (minus one or two vague memories) is obliterated from my memory makes me think something was pretty scary at that time in my life.

So all of that to say, right now – with my heightened anxiety over nothing, or little things – I sort of think that third grade personality is wanting to come out, wanting to deal with her stuff.

And it’s freaking me out.  I’ve spent my whole life squishing down bad memories and scary monsters.  I’ve spent a great many years lying to myself that there are no skeletons in my closet, and bolting it up just to be sure.  I am scared to death of the memories of a little nine year old girl making their way into my life, and making a shambles of my existence.

But I guess, to be who I need to be, and to embrace the beauty of the darkest side of my soul, I must.

So hang on if you want, follow if you dare, the ride may be bumpy, I just don’t know…

flat faced and eagle eyed

i’m in one of my people today.

having DID is quite an interesting life.  whether you know you have it or not.

today i believe i’m functioning in a personality that i’ve had since i was a wee thing.  although whichever personality i use to write is conflicting with her right now, because the personality on my face doesn’t use quippy writing style.

i call her Rocky.

one day i’d like to make a book about these interesting people inside me.  for now this blog will suffice.  i finally bought myself a printer/copier/scanner, and will soon begin the interesting project of scanning old pictures of me onto my blog.

may not sound all that thrilling to anyone, but as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

after my uncle died i had a massive influx of new pictures in my life.  he was an amateur photographer, basically having a decent talent that he used mainly as a hobby.  i have started a number of blogs about this interesting person with his interesting hobby, but i don’t think i’ve ever put them up.

because they are too difficult.

too dark.

when i got these pictures it freaked my shit out, so to speak.  because some of the pictures reveal more to myself than i want to know.

but these pictures also document my life as a multiple.  like i said…i plan on making a book of this, because i am not aware of any other book where you can SEE the different personalities right from the lens’ point of view.  and there they are…several of me in one shoot, popping out from behind the same set of eyes, but clearly very different.

anyway, i’m one of these people today.  one of these hidden little me’s that people forget are there.  that I forget are there.  my face is different.  i am usually wide eyed and expressive, and today i’m like Botox face, all flat forehead, emotionless eyebrows, facial muscles taking a bit of a coffee break.  and my brain isn’t over multi-tasking, which it usually is.  i’m kind of one track right now.  i’m kind of distant and watching and uninvolved.  but i can’t trace this person’s thoughts as well as i can others.

wonder how this day shall pan out…

 

i’m not a monster…exactly

this week has been kind of sketchy for me.  a couple of different times at work i had to pretend like i wasn’t crazy.  an incident occurred where another person’s sanity – or more accurately, INsanity – was exposed and people were talking about it.  about HER.  a woman alone, by herself, talking in two distinctive voices.  this seemed to rattle the mental cages of several people around me, which i guess is pretty understandable.  most people don’t have multiple voices that they use interchangeably.

but i can relate.  that woman probably (surely) had multiple personalities, as do i.  and the people that were freaking out about the whole situation work with me every day.  if they knew I had multiple personalities, is this how they would behave?  make fun of me?  laugh about my oddness?  run around and tell everyone else at work that i was crazy?

i kind of think the truth of the matter is that most people don’t know a person with MPD.  or they don’t KNOW that they know someone.  i guess it’s fairly rare.  or at least, maybe lots of people have it but they don’t know it cause they can’t afford treatment.  a lot of therapists aren’t trained specifically for this area of mental health, and finding a good shrink/therapist is hard for us MPD’ers to do.  it’s not like trying to find a good dentist; there just aren’t that many people out there who have treated Multiples, let alone specialize in this area.  and then there is the cost issue.  so if you don’t have awesome Canadian medical insurance, you may not be able to afford to be told you are a nutball.

anyway, with people kind of making fun of this “crazy” throughout the week, it was hard on me.  i felt shame.  embarrassment.  i felt fearful.  i was jittery and switchy and had a hard time controlling my body.  i wanted to run away and hide.  because it isn’t easy being a Multiple, and it isn’t socially acceptable.

i’m not socially acceptable.

and that sucks.  because those of us that have this condition have it because once upon a time, we were scared shitless and couldn’t do anything about whatever we were scared of.  so we ran away to another part of our minds and created different worlds, people, languages and memories.

we aren’t scary monsters that need to be locked away in a dungeon.

we aren’t contagious and about to spread our ill on mankind.

we aren’t wicked cast offs from the fiery pit of hell spawned by Satan as a curse on the head of mortal man.

we’re just…many.  many of us in one body.  we’re just people.  and little.  and scared.

so don’t be mean to us.  ok?

 

needed: video surveillance of sleepy stripper

i’m supposed to be asleep right now,

but … well, clearly i’m not.  i woke up and started fiddling on the computer for quite some time before i realized i had the window open and my box fan going in there.  which isn’t how i went to sleep.  not a big deal; i’m sure people do this kind of thing all the time – adjust things in the middle of the night.  but i always find it humorous because i don’t know if it’s just something i did, or one of my “others”.  i’ve woken many times (is woken a word?) to find myself upside down in bed, in the living room on the couch, or in a completely different get up (or none at all)

this is all good and well, cause it doesn’t really matter to me.  i just hope this doesn’t ever happen to me if i’m on a group outing, like an impromptu sleepover after a good party at a friend’s;  ’cause waking up in someone’s house naked, when you didn’t mean to be…that can get complicated!

egyptian days

today is an Egyptian Day.

according to  Nigel Pennick’s research, today (June 22) is a somewhat unlucky day.  don’t worry, he lists a good many of them in his book, so it’s not a SPECIAL unlucky day, just a regular one.

but i started off today feeling rather wonky.  out of body.  swirly.  my sister said i needed to go hold a stone, so i climbed the stairs, sat on my bed, and held a large crystal rock i was given.  i had visions.  and journeys.  and hunger pains, so i went down and ate some Cheerios.  but i did feel better.

then i went to work.  now, this is what Nigel is saying in his book: if you can at all, don’t do that.  don’t go to work on an Egyptian Day.  or, you know, win the LOTTO the day  before so you don’t have to.  but i didn’t.  win the LOTTO that is, so i DID have to go in to work.  and while i was there the computer’s crashed so that customers couldn’t help themselves and had to wait in line for us, and we had to do everything old school style:  sans online software.  whew.  not ideal.

but then, to add more excitement to the picture, i rolled over the top of my friend’s foot with the chair and potentially broke her toe.  to this she exclaimed in true French fashion.  so i ran to get ice.  but of course, there was no quick-break-ice-pack in the medic box, so i had to go up 4 flights.  and that doesn’t sound bad, except that the speed of our elevator is sort of like my Grandma when she was leaving church with her walker that she called “Ethel”…slow .  but finally i did get to the floor i needed, and still no ice bags.  so then i had to crack open ice from the ice trays and fill a baggie (which of course i couldn’t find in the first four drawers).

but finally – friend in ice and computers coming back from hibernation – i saw a cute patron and all seemed like it might right itself.  but wait!  the day is still not over!  the final ‘guest’ of the day runs in to pick up something and gets into a lengthy conversation with a co-worker, while the other workers are breathing like dragons down my neck and security is turning all the lights off.  and by now i’ve been twitchy for several hours (feeling the need to shift personalities) and i’m hungry and dreaming of liquid beverages you can’t get in a vending machine.

which i consumed upon coming home.

(after i drove around for 1/2 an hour trying to get a pizza, getting cash, avoiding people going to a baseball game, avoiding the three cop cars hanging around the middle of the street and the two on the corner whose occupants were wrestling a drug addict on the ground spouting blood from his face)

so yeah, next time just stay home.

prelude to Skritchy

you can spot my work schedule by my blog.  long week: just a pictue.  short week: three blogs in one day.  by the way, blog is such a weird word.

i haven’t written about my “condition” lately.  mostly because i have trained myself to walk around pretending like i don’t have it; like there is nothing wrong with me.  but sometimes…well i can’t always avoid the truth.

on Wednesday of last week, i came into work in a different personality.  apparently.  because EVERYONE commented on how weird i was that day, and one of my co-workers/friends said “i don’t think denelle is with us today”.   i’m not sure if she was talking about the Multiplicity situation, or if she just thought i was “on Pluto” which is what one of my other co-workers said.

i sort of feel like i have MPD-Lite.  like a lite beer instead of the real thing.  i’m not sure if that is an accurate summation, or a real possibility.  maybe i just don’t want to think i’m as crazy as i am.  i put up pictures on my blog because people seem to respond more strongly to my photos than to my written blogs, and somewhere in a corner of my mind, someone sighs from relief, thinking that if we just keep people happy we won’t have to talk about that “weird stuff”.

but it is weird.  Wednesday i was in whatever personality i was in, and i didn’t know i was any different than normal. i’ve never played an RPG game or Magic the Gathering or anything like that, but i think i can liken my situation (multiple personalities) with Magic:  people – like cards – are on reserve for certain situations.  i more frequently use my WORKER card, because it is an appropriate face to show the general public.  but i have all these other guys in my deck, just waiting for the right circumstance to pop in the game:  a laughing little silly girl; a cynical, untrusting old soul; a prankster type; a klutzorama.  all of them are waiting for their moment to come back, so they can hop around and eat ice cream, or stick their tongue out at someone.

and they don’t necessarily know that they haven’t been out in a while.  some of my personalities are very aware of time, others, my lifeline.  others are … well, pretty clueless and scared.  and sometimes these people pop out on accident, which is maybe what happened on Wednesday, i don’t know.  but then i had someone asking me if i was OK all night, is there some way they can help.

i’m like:  Jesus, i’m not bleeding out of my eyes!  i’m just crazy!  and how are you going to help; have you got a personality organizer handy?

well, anyway, i guess all this came on because i just put up an old poem that uses the word “skritchy”, and that is what i call one of my personalities.

but skritchy is a story for another day….

ill equipped

today is a hard day.

i feel it today; all that craziness in there.  i feel confused and nervous and scared, little and sad and oogie.   it sort of feels like i’m at an amusement park, and there is a ride that is too old for me, or i’m too short, but the guy lets me get on anyway – even though my face reveals that i’m not entirely sure i WANT to be on the ride.  and now there is no way off.  but i’m not equipped, you know?  it just feels like today, i’m just not equipped for life.

y’know?

Accidental Happiness ~ the meaning of the Ghost Girl

Well today has been terribly interesting, and it’s only 8:30 am!

I’ve gone through a lot this morning, and I suppose I’ll start at the conclusion and work backwards:  I am a ghost.

Facebook is many things, but for me right now it has been validity.  I’ve had a number of people over the past year get in touch with me, and tell me how much I mean to them, and reach out to re-establish a friendship.  This has been wonderful and made me feel loved.

And confused.

I realize that having my situation – for those of you new to the Denelle-Experience, I have DID/MPD/aka: multiple personality disorder – might be difficult for people to deal with.  I have been very fortunate that the good majority of people I have come out to have been unphased by my declaration of insanity and have embraced me as the same old me I was yesterday, before they knew I was crazy.  But there is always that fringe element; the people who curl up their lips in distaste, the people who think I’m trying to be “special”, or the people who say “let me process that and I’ll get back to you” and then don’t get back to you.  But as I’ve said, I’ve been lucky most of the time.  And especially fortunate for these people that have come back into my life and said “I don’t care.  Have what you want, I still love you”.

And that’s the issue at hand for me;  grappling with this idea that people can love me regardless of my wonky eyebrows, or my love handles, or any of my other oddities.  Not because I think I am not lovable, but because I have trained myself to be invisible.

They say you establish your personality by the time you are five, and today my sister helped me understand why I so often feel like I’m invisble, or feel unloved even when people love me very much.   It’s because I trained myself to be a ghost.  Messages from my surroundings and actions from others bombarded me in my childhood, feeding me information that told me I was disposable, invisible, or ethereal.  Here are a few of those things:

my father left me in the mountains when i was 3 or 4.     my mother sent me away to Mexico when i was 8, without telling me why or if i would be coming back home.     i used to hear a song a lot as a kid that talked about Jesus, and how it’s too late for you, he left without you and “you’ve been left behind”.      my mother sent me to live with my godparents when i was having nervous breakdowns and was suicidal.     my uncle tried to kill me with an axe.      my mom used to leave us occassionally, when she’d had too much of our family, and i never knew if she would come back, which made me feel unimportant, and somehow invisible.     my father abandoned my family to go to another country and help them in a crises, meanwhile leaving us with no money, food or heat in the house.      i was missing in my sixth grade class picture-the year i started feeling strong and powerful and my own person-and there i was NO ONE and INVISIBLE not standing next to my best friend Mary, because i was mysteriously missing.  a ghost of a person, and it’s hard to take pictures of a ghost.        i lost my 7th grade year book full of signatures of all my friends that remembered me, had fun with me….almost as though that year never happened.

For a normal sane individual these things might not make you think you are a ghost.  You would say something like “shit, i hate it when i lose something” or “who keeps old yearbooks?”   For me, this is life.  My life.  This is how it has been for me since the dawn of my time; I seem to evaporate until no memory of me is left, and I was never there to begin with.  Sort of like the movie “The Butterfly Effect” which I won’t even link to because it upset me so much.

I have struggled with feeling like I had no particular place in life, in this world.  Detached.  Dissociated.  But my sis sort of brought that into perspective this morning, when I fretted about friends who loved or didn’t love or remember me.  We came to the conclusion that I am ghostly, and have ghostly work to do.  I have work to do between the worlds, between the realms of the living and dead, between the realities of possible and imagination, which to me are the same damn thing.  It’s become clear that all the things that happened in my formative years instructed me to be a ghost;  and so I must have been training myself in this field for some phantomly lifetime purpose. 

Either that or I’m just not very memorable.   I’ll stick with the ghost-mission.