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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.

 

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The Girls

OK, for those of you who have been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know a few things about it and me:

1.  I have Multiple Personality Disorder

2.  I have been saying I would post up pictures and details about this interesting condition for a while now

3.  I haven’t done that yet.

Well, I moved in May, and since the move I have not been able to find the cord to my scanner that I need to upload pictures.  So I’m going to have to either be creative and come up with something different for that, or really comb the boxes (or stores) for what I need.  In the meantime, I’m creating a new  page called “The Girls”, where I will be keeping information about this conglomeration of quacks known as me.  In “The Girls” I will be posting said pictures and information about the various different personalities I deal with and walk among.

*disclosure*  There are some psychiatrists who do not believe in Multiple Personality Disorder as a diagnosis.  I’m not sure how many this totals up to, but there it is.  It IS a weird situation; because what you have on the outside is someone you see at work everyday (or church, or home) who looks like the person you know.  But on their end, they might not be the same person you dealt with yesterday.  Or even an hour ago.

I myself have gone upstairs to use the bathroom, come back downstairs and been completely dumbfounded by a conversation my sister is having with me.  “I don’t have any farking idea what you are talking about”, is my response.  But in her reality, we just had a forty-five minute talk about something, and a short pee in the middle shouldn’t normally cause someone to forget the previous discussion of almost an hour.    Unless that body that came down the stairs is now holding a different personality.

See?  It’s weird.  It’s like a SciFi movie.  It’s like the body snatchers have taken the person away and replaced it with this OTHER thing.

And that’s true!  That’s kind of what happens.  For whatever reason, the person that has this disorder will at times become frightened, feel threatened, or have a memory that causes the current personality to “make way” for a new or existing personality to step forward and be in control.  It’s very similar to “Chinese Fire-Drill” driving.  You are all still in the car together, but at some point you stop the car and change places.

More on this in a later post; this much to say, it’s fine if it is weird, crazy or bizarre sounding to you.  It is to me too, and I live with it.  And for those doctors that don’t believe in the condition; well, they have that show “Wife Swap”…you could always try a swap and live with someone who “claims” to have the disorder and see what it’s like for a while.

OK, so keep you posted on the coming additions, and the page will be live just EMPTY for now!  😦

DSCF1789except for this   😀

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…

oh, Stormy…

I was very Stormy the other day.

Stormy is one of my alters that I haven’t quite figured out. Well, most of them I haven’t figured out yet.

Stormy seems to be a mix of things; part tomboy, part ska beach girl, part free spirit. She has a littler body than most of us. When Stormy has taken over, I can tell, because my body feels like it’s shorter than normal. I suddenly have a junior high sized body, and a different walk. She’s a little more slouchy than most, and walks like Meg Ryan in Prelude to a Kiss. Or maybe that’s how Meg walks all the time, I don’t know for sure. The tomboy aspect comes out in how she does her hair, what shoes she wears, what clothes she puts on. She is spunky, quirky, and has a definite viewpoint that I haven’t figured out. I’m not sure yet what propels her, but she has a mind of her own and plays by her own set of rules. She is uninhibited, sporty and free, which is not really how I have spent most of my life up ’till now. At least, not in the way she does it.

Stormy will dance in the middle of the street if she hears a song on someone’s radio she likes. She won’t worry about what the drivers or people around her will think, she’ll just turn to her sister or friend and say “ooo, I LOVE this song!” smile a huge smile and start swinging her hips. Stormy will walk confidently into any room and not even consider what other people are thinking about her, go about her business, and leave. She can tell when a boy thinks she’s cute, and she might smile at them or wink, but she is so involved in the moment that she just LIVES it and doesn’t worry about any of that other stuff.

That’s not been me. A lot of my adult life – or a lot of the life I can remember – has been spent observing people, trying to gauge their reactions to me so that I can change my behavior if I sense danger or disapproval. If I’m too hyper, I can calm down. If I’m too loud, I can alter my voice. I need to be in tune with the situations around me in order to shift myself – either my personality or my characteristics – to stay safe; to blend in. Stormy isn’t like that. She just is what she is.

I reconnected with a friend of mine from my past, and he told me he was madly in love with me when we were young. I thought he had a thing for my sister, but no, it was me he was crazy about. He described a time we were in the back of someone’s truck, driving along on a summer night, and I was singing a song by the Eagles, or Styx. He said I was the most beautiful thing ever. I thought to myself, “Stormy”.

Stormy isn’t afraid of life.

She IS life.

She runs and loves and feels openly.

She embraces trees and people and ideas openly.

She is the essence of vitality, and what people dream of finding at the bottom of the fountain of youth.

And I have her in me…

I just have to figure out how to let her out…

 

mpd for dinner

having multiple personality disorder goes something like this:

let’s say you are a female, and you have twelve kids to feed at dinner time.

  1. one of the kids has stomach issues and can’t have anything too spicy
  2. one is allergic to everything
  3. one hates spaghetti because it made her throw up once
  4. one only ever wants to eat cereal
  5. one is afraid of eating anything that has gone past the expiration date printed on its container, and this means that she questions everything that comes out of the refrigerator trying to determine if you have checked the date or not, so she does not die of food poisoning
  6. one is on a hunger strike
  7. one doesn’t like the way you make the macaroni
  8. one is already in the kitchen working on dinner, because she thought you’d need a head start because you had a long day at work, so she’s already got things going, although she did manage to break a dish while she was at it
  9. one is planning on running away and having pizza for dinner anyway
  10. 10.  one is skipping straight to the ice cream course
  11. 11.  one can’t remember where the kitchen is and is afraid that everyone will eat without her and she will starve to death because she was forgotten
  12. 12.  one thinks this whole thing is a big drama and is just going to bed

whackadaisical

 

today may have been the hardest day of my adult life.

i don’t know, there have been some pretty hard ones…narrowing it down to which one is the worst may be overly ambitious of me. still, this one ranks right up there. it’s at least the hardest day i’ve had in a very, very long while.

my condition – the DID – makes life…shall i say, interesting.

my sister – the angel i live with – puts up with a lot, and i don’t envy her. i guess my memory is rather spotty. maybe if i just sat around trying to remember what my favorite childhood tv show was (TWILIGHT ZONE) or favorite book (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) or other childhood favorites, well maybe a spotty memory wouldn’t be so bad.

i like to be witty. i like to have a funny comeback, or a sassy antidote. i like to write blogs that are interesting, or curious, or whacky, that will make someone laugh or wonder how i got to be such a silly person.

but today is not like that.

today is a punched-in-the-gut day.

today there isn’t much bravado left in me, so i guess i have to be brutally honest for a change.

today was horrible.

i’ve had a lot of jobs. i’ve been a janitor, a teacher’s aid, a cashier. i’ve worked at bookstores, health clubs, pizza parlours and day camps. i’ve worked for theological seminaries, colleges, insurance companies and health food stores. and i’ve never really looked at that. i know several people where i work right now that have only worked one job, their whole life, in the same building for 20, 30 years. i don’t mind that i’ve traveled and changed and lived. but today it stared me straight in the face, and the question was…why do i have to keep moving?

i had a job review recently, and it didn’t make me happy. usually my job reviews are good; often they are great. i meet expectations or i greatly exceed them. i’ve always been something of a workhorse, and people have regularly noticed that i’m a hard worker. but this time i got a mixed review. feedback from my supervisor was that i was inconsistent, and she felt i should be remembering my job better than i am. and only being in this position for a little while didn’t seem to matter. she is frustrated with me.

the thing is; i don’t remember.

i don’t know what things i’m not doing right. and she didn’t tell me, though i kept asking. but that’s the thing…several people might have had conversations with me, and it’s true, i may not remember them. this is what my sister deals with all the time. she tells me something in passing, and i say “what are you talking about?” then she’ll say, you know … we talked about it yesterday. and no, i have no idea what she’s talking about. she’s gotten so used to it that now she’ll just look at me and say “well i talked to one of you the other day”. this has made me feel embarrassed a lot of the time, and i’ve sometimes gotten mad and been like “stop saying that. it’s all me” but some of the me’s don’t have any idea what we’re talking about.

and now, apparently, this is happening at work.

back in the day – when i worked at all these other places – none of my other personalities came out at work. or if they did, the worker person somehow managed to keep them in the background. i was basically always functioning in one mode back then. but now i have people out all the time that may not fully understand their job situation.

so today i had to tell my boss i have MPD. and it sucked. i cried like a baby, because i’ve tried so very hard for so very long to fit into the “normal” world and look and act just like everyone else. i haven’t wanted to rouse suspicion, lest someone find out my darkest secret. and now it’s out of the bag! and my secret is more public than i’d planned on going. and i’m scared.

i’m afraid of being fired.

i’m afraid of losing my friends.

i’m afraid of people thinking i’m an idiot.

i’m afraid of making people angry at me for being this way.

i’m afraid of not being cared for and loved.

i know i’m totally fucked up. i know that. but i’ve been alone with that knowledge my whole life. and now my sister supports me. but the more i open my fucking heart to people, the more i care, the more i end up needing to explain my whackadaisical behaviors….and i’m worried.

because not everyone will be able to love me.

and i desperately need love.

denelleiologist

 

So I have DID. We’ve talked about that here. My frequent readers know this about me. Right this moment I’m exploring, questioning really, my experience of being diagnosed.

Two years ago (I think it was two) I was diagnosed with DID. And getting myself to accept this was a piece of work, I have to say. But I think I’ve also mentioned that my first diagnosis of DID was in 1995. I refer to my situation as “my system” (although Team Denelle might be more exciting; reminds me of when we had “Team Jolie” and “Team Aniston”. i was definitely Team Jolie. i like to run with the dark side) anyway, I call this whole business my “system”. Right? Because sometimes my sister will be talking to me, and I’m looking at her with a quizzical expression, and she says to me, “well I talked to one of you about this yesterday”, or “oh, it may not have been you I told this to”. That kind of thing. And I get mad at her. “Stop saying that! It’s ALL me!” Because it is all me. But she’s right, too.

Because she will tell me conversations we had the day before and I have no bloody idea what she’s talking about. I FEEL like I’m myself, but I’m actually not the same person that she talked to, so I don’t have access to those memories. I think I’ve mentioned that it’s like a Chinese Fire Drill. I have all these personalities in the same car, but not everyone is driving at the same time. Some are asleep, or doing I don’t know what, while others might be complaining about what I’m doing, while some of us are “driving” the body or navigating. Is this confusing?

Take work, for example. I might go to work as a certain person – the Driver personality, who likes to work her fingers to the bone and hardly ever take a break. But other people in ‘the System’ might want to come out, so they surface. And now I might be at work but be a ten year old kid, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do at my desk. Or I might be both a ten year old and another personality at the same time, while my Driver personality is trying to get these kids to behave so she can get back to work. It’s complicated.

Anyway, my question to my self, to my System is, where is this original diagnosee? Someone was going to a therapist back in the day, and someone sat in the office and heard that she had Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID, or MPD. She accepted this diagnosis – presumably – because she then told a very dear friend. And then what? Because the System seemed to evaporate that information, and it was completely unknown to me until this friend told me that this had happened fifteen years ago. So where has this side of myself been for fifteen years? Just hiding out in my brain or body? Has this person popped out in my life somewhere, unbeknownst to me? I completely don’t remember the situation that my friend told me about, are there other things I don’t remember from that time? Or that personality? Where has this missing time gone?

I know I’ve spoken about these issues before (Wild Child) but it’s a strange, bizarre, troubling thing, this amnesia I have. It makes me confused and curious about my life. It makes me wonder and question and unsure about my reality. I don’t really know WHO I am. Because I’m more than what I have come to think of as myself. And even that is suspect, because sometimes I think I’m myself, but my therapist or my sister will say I’m behaving differently, and in a different personality than I had thought I was. My people in my System are a mystery to me, and I must continually find ways to explore and uncover.

I always wanted to be an Egyptologist and go on digs to uncover old artifacts, languages, secrets of another life. I guess I’ve gotten my wish; I’m just a Denelleiologist instead.

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.

mess of life, stardate July 9-present, part 2

 

I have throat issues. I’ve mentioned already (see “Spontaneous Stripper Disorder”) that I sometimes have the need to change my clothes. One of these reasons is the neckline of any particular garment. Now, sometimes I can comfortably wear a turtle neck. And other days a wide open boat collar feels too enclosing. I frequently have issues with the crew neck collars of tee-shirts, and feel the need to make alterations to the clothing via scissors, other pokey instruments, or just angry hands. I can wear chokers and necklaces, but I never know for how long. Because, as I said, I have throat issues.

I’ve been involved in a number of dangerous and life threatening situations. I’ve had someone choke me. I’ve had someone threaten to slit my throat open with a knife. I’ve been pinned to the wall. I’ve been hit in the face. I’ve had the aforementioned axe incident, where I was attacked by a man swinging an axe at me. I’ve been accosted in a public place, and THEN pinned to a wall. I’ve been pinned to the ground and assaulted. And all of this by different people, so it’s not like I got a handle on who was the consistent, reliable perpetrator. Soon, EVERYONE was a possible perpetrator. And eventually I learned not to allow my back to people. Because now my fear is that I will be attacked. It’s not like a conscious fear I’ve been aware of. All of these situations happened before my adult life, so I developed an undercurrent of thinking that involved people wanting to kill me. Because it seemed like that was the big thrill everyone wanted to get in on. So I became afraid of sitting with my back to people in a restaurant. I became nervous riding full busses. I heightened my awareness and threw up a bunch of walls, and tried to be sure I could see everything around me when at all possible. At least this way if some giant of a man comes at me wielding a sharp instrument I will be ready. This time I will be prepared to die.

Even with all of this vigilance, I haven’t been able to necessarily fend off the death threats. I’ve had two people talk about killing me while I was at my workplace. And several stalkers in my time. And now I’m being asked to sit at my obviously inferior workspace and allow the world to come and slit my throat from behind.

So I’ve been having numerous meltdowns. I cry all the time. I almost fainted at work when I showed my sister my horrid little hovel. My heart rate has been incredibly off the charts for days now. I’m twitchy and nervous and fearful. I hyperventilate when I’m brushing my teeth in the bathroom. And lying on the couch. And making a sandwich. I’m soft and sullen and wounded. I have a perpetual woeful look on my face. Or I think I do…I haven’t been looking in the mirror a lot, but the facial muscles I’m using FEEL woeful. Yes I know, they’ve told me they will work on it. It is hopeful that I will be able to turn my desk a different direction, even though I was told this was NOT possible the day they told me about this whole situation. So maybe it won’t be as bad as it was presented to me. Maybe after a while I will realize that the situation isn’t horrible at all, and I just worked myself up into a lather over the idea of imminent death, when the Death wasn’t really knocking at my door at all. It was just the Avon lady, maybe, with my order of frizzy hair control product.

Still, for the past five days I have been a bundle of nerves. Which just makes me have to run to the bathroom to get sick. Oh yeah! This might be one of my alters, and I don’t know if I’ve mentioned her or not yet. Nervous Nellie. Hi, glad to meet you. If you couldn’t tell, Nervous Nellie has had plenty of things to be nervous about, and now she gets to go to work in this state of anxiety and tension, and try to perform menial tasks and duties, like walking and getting a drink of water.

On the positive side, I have been wanting to learn to let people in to my life, my world, and my heart. I wasn’t planning on doing that by becoming a vulnerable, messy, wreck of a human right in front of everyone I work with, but there you go. Now the poison’s out of the bottle, it’s not like I can shove it back in.

mess of life, stardate July 9 to present

 

Last weekend, around the fourth of July, Bodie and I watched a show that is airing on VH1, which is called the OCD Project. I love a lot of reality shows. Not the ones that turn into cat-fights over who slept with whom. Not the ones that take advantage of the tragic and public lives of celebrities, and their nasty habit of being human. But I do like a lot of these shows, because it’s freeing somehow to see other people react to situations, and to watch them display common, universal behaviors. Because too often, I tell myself that there is something wrong with me. For the whole of my life, that is what I have believed. In fact, for a long while I thought I was a curse, or a jinx, and that anyone that befriended me would suffer somehow.
Anyway, I digress. The OCD Project came at just the right time. I watched a few episodes, and saw a whole group of people struggle to do normal, average, everyday tasks that I assume a great majority of people can do without much effort. Wash a load of laundry. Drive a car at night. Turn off the lights when you get ready to go to bed. But for these people, it’s a matter of turning on and off the lights forty times. It’s synchronistic, I suppose, that I managed to squeeze three episodes of this show into my life before I too would be confronted with what they call “Exposures”. In an “Exposure”, you are forced to confront one of your issues, face to face.

So here is my Exposure.

They are moving my working area. And while this has happened before (actually, I think I’ve been relocated four times in the last year and a half) I have never had the situation provoke these emotions from me. I can’t think of a time when I’ve had such a tense work environment. First there is the negative energy that flows around the whole area I work in. Inner-department rivalry, bitterness, anger, and fairly open hostility have all gone unresolved for untold years. Complaints are abundant, and negative talk is fierce and rampant. For someone with my psychic awareness this is a difficult situation. But coupled with my trio of acronym illnesses (DID, PTSD, OCD) I’m fairly screwed. Oh sure, they all cover it up with sarcasm and passive aggressive mumblings. Still, it’s not the most supportive work environment I’ve experienced.

And now I’ve been shoved into a corner of the department that has been designated for broken objects in disrepair. I’ve been given a shitty table as my counter space, no computer for my work, and no shelving, organizational tools or anything to make my space workable or personal. While other people have private, decorated cubicles full of personal and luxury items, like coffee makers, extra furniture, tapestries and pictures of their kids, I have a busted table and boxes of shit underneath this table, so that I can’t even scoot my chair in all the way. I’ve been told we are ‘working on it’. Everyone else in the entire department – the entire FLOOR of the building has a nice unit, or at least a nice desk. Not me. They “might” be able to clear off one shelf for me, on their bookcase full of crap. If I’m nice. And good. And don’t bite anyone in the next three weeks. Which means I’m screwed again, because I’m definitely feeling a bite coming on…

But the bigger issue is the placement of the horrible table.

I look out the window, so that’s nice, but my back is to everyone that walks by. This is maybe not the worst thing in the world for some people, who would like nothing more than to turn their back on their fellow man. But for me, it’s a nightmare. Tune in tomorrow to find out why….