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frickin frakita fkdkslgkfls

OK, politics aside people:  the key to a happy, safe America is Meds for everyone.  I mean, health insurance so that some people who NEED meds (i/e: ME) can have access to them when they need it.  I’ve been off some of my normalizers, which help with stress, anxiety and OCD issues, and I swear to God, I’m about to kick some kittens, to use a friend’s phrase.  (because clearly I’m not someone who would kick kittens!  maybe a beaver, or a chinchilla, but we don’t have many of those in my neighborhood).

Anyway, yesterday was ROUGH on me, and today I’m having anger controlling issues because of my computer and this thing they call the InterNet, which, if you think about it, sounds like a horror movie.  So Frack- I will have to update and blog on the interesting, hide away and keep private those things that might land me in prison, and in the meantime hope I don’t lose my job today for hostility toward customers.

DRUGGGGGSSSSS PLEASEEEEE!Image

aackkkk!!

ok, so i feel like barfing my brains and guts out right now.

and yes, technically i AM sick, but that’s not the reason for my hysterical nervous system.

i’ve just emailed an agent, and i may have totally bombed the whole situation.  i’ve been wanting to approach this agent for, i don’t know, i think a year.  but i’ve been sitting on my ass about it, because my ass is so cute i didn’t know what else to do.  and also because i just, i don’t know, i have the normal fear of rejection that often comes with my personality type, which is writer/poet/overly dramatic/worryaholic.

so the smart thing i did was to fire off a stupid email to him.  in which  i failed to present anything of value, used a casual and inappropriate greeting and informal language, and also did stupid things like say i hope i’ve enticed him with my wit, or something equally moronic.

the good news is that he actually wrote me back!   the other good news is that having sent such a lame query, i could quickly let go of the nervousness of being rejected, since it would be almost unimaginable for someone to take me seriously with that email.

but then i responded BACK to him, and actually sent him a few things so he could get an idea of me, and maybe what i want to create.

and now i want to throw up.

i really want to work with THIS agent.  i don’t know why, i just have a feeling.  so if i screwed it up with my idiotic approach, i’m going to be … well really fucking mad at myself.  and thus, my intense desire to puke up my everything….

 

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?

 

CRAZY PEOPLE, I LOVE YOU!

especially when you stay home and let the rest of us alone.

oh wait, i’m a crazy too.

OH!  i get to go home then!!!

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.

skullduggery

skullduggery:  trickery; unfair, dishonest practices and goings on

i ADORE this word.  wish i’d made it up.  it has a dark, sinister, piratey feel to it, and its flavor makes using it a brilliant feat of genius.  not that i have occasion to use it often, but i see it from time to time in books.  it always makes me smile.  it makes me think of a pirate on a deserted beach, hiding the bones of some hapless victim, burying them deep in the sand.  because clearly the victim found out too much information about the treasure, or rum, or female companion, and he needed a good place to rest for a while anyway.  it gets so hot out there.

so this is one of my all-time favorite words.

skullduggery

tune in later this week for more complete nonsense and superfluous drivel

the ghost in my head

Today I am a ghost.

I’ve realized this after writing an earlier blog (see below) and also talking to my sis.

 My ghost girl first showed up when I was about five.  I guess I could have been four, or maybe even three, I don’t know for sure.  We lived in the same apartments for maybe three years when I was that age, so the exact date is uncertain. 

 When the ghost first popped out I was in the laundry room.  My mother was doing laundry, and it was a pretty good sized facility, with lots of washers and dryers, and windows at one side of the building.  And the washers and dryers were all in the center of the room, leaving plenty of room to walk about, fold your clothes, sit and read a magazine.  I was running around one day, and ran and ran around the washers.  Like I was chasing something, or trying to run from a friend or sibling.  Or maybe I’d just had to much sugary cereal. 

 But there I was, running around in the laundry room; only I was really way up in the ceiling looking down.  Something had happened and part of me split out of the body.  And this part looked down at the child running around in circles, and said, “This isn’t me”.  This part felt sort of angelic, or ethereal, and looked down at the running child and thought of her as a puppet; a dolly.  “How is it that this dolly runs around when there is no one inside her?” the ghost wondered?  “It’s like she’s just a rag flitting around, with nothing to tell her how to move or where to go”.  But the child kept running. 

 The angel person felt funny.  It seemed somehow she was connected to the running dolly, but she couldn’t see how exactly.  It didn’t feel like someone she knew; it felt like a puppet, far away and impersonal.  It didn’t feel like it was the angel’s body; the angel was way up in the ceiling, looking down at the puppet-child with curiosity, and a little disdain.  Anyway, the angel didn’t think she belonged in a body.  She was pretty sure that she was connected to the running puppet, but it didn’t seem right for her to be in the body.  It seemed like it didn’t belong to her.  The angel thought maybe she had somehow done something horrible and stolen this body that really belonged to someone else, apparently the puppet child.  Clearly it didn’t come with her in it, because angels don’t have bodies, so how was she connected to it?  Eventually the angel realized she must not really be an angel, because angels don’t do bad things like steal bodies from little children so they can inhabit them for their own selves.  So the angel de-winged herself and decided she must just be a ghost.  Because she didn’t have much in the way of emotions.  And she didn’t feel like that body fit her very well.  And she didn’t seem to feel like anyone could see her or recognize that she was there.  Plus she was way up here on the ceiling, and no one else was doing that except ghosts.

 So the ghost girl was created.

 And she is invisible, and far away, and empty. 

She hangs on to the puppet child, and won’t let go, but is kind of empty about it, in a dead, ghosty kind of way.

She likes to fly out of the body altogether, and sail over houses in search of somewhere that sells Slurpees.

And she isn’t sure what to do with herself, or why she is around. 

But she’s been there almost from the beginning,

just … there.

goddess

Not always easy being me.

People don’t always get me.

Even my own people.

There’s something about me –

something magic –

That makes kitties want to sit on my

lap for a massage

That makes my team score when I cheer

and lose the game if I leave to go pee.

Something that makes the camel in the

zoo laugh at me and come closer to be

near me.

And I can’t change that.

I don’t want to.

Yeah, I’m my father’s daughter.

Yeah, I’m prone to fantasy thinking

and teetering on the border of

reality and insanity.

Yes – I jump in the pool and may

actually drown before I can swim

my way to the oasis.

But this is who I am.

Balls to the wall.

Heart on my sleeve.

Eyes in the sky.

I’m a believer

and a magician

and a lover

and

a

goddess.

I can’t be all that and rational too.

 

 

goddess

accidental happiness – cute beans

I got cute beans.

Back-story:  One of my cats – I have four – is ridiculously adorable.  I mean, they all are, of course.  One is neurotic, needy and affectionate.  One is shy, nervous and spends most of the day hiding from carpet lint.  One is adventurous, athletic and bossy.  And then there is Siris. 

            Siris is … well, adorable.  Soft little belly, big pouty eyes, dark markings on his mouth that make you wonder if he found some kitty-sized lipstick somewhere and is looking into cross-dressing.  He does have a shoe fetish.  We’ve never determined exactly what it is about this cat that makes him so adorable.  True, he is physically cuter than many a cat.  We frequently remind him that there are a score of dreadfully ugly felines out in the world because he stole all the cute.  He just says “meow”.  Is it his cute ‘fun-sized’ stature that makes him so adorable?  He’s never really sprouted into a cat size; still walks around sporting a kitten suit.  Is it this petite frame that makes him so endearing?  Or the fact that he snores when he’s asleep?  I mean, serious snoring, like your old favorite grandparent on the Lazy Boy Sunday afternoon.  Or could it be all the funny adventures Siris has gotten himself into, and we just automatically believe he is charming because of his hilarious past?  The burrito eating contest.  The spontaneous cast he made for his arm.  His random art projects.  Regardless of the reason, he is just freakishly delightful. 

            And he knows this.  In the ten years that we have had Siris, the only days he hasn’t been told he’s cute are days that we were off with family for the holidays; or traveling through Bellinzona, Italy; or landed in jail for indecent exposure in a public place.  Hey come on.  I thought there was something called Freedom of Religion?  Cult rites should be included in that, especially if they involve nudity, honey and shocked onlookers.  But back to the topic at hand; me.

            Reality is, no matter what the reason, this cat is damn cute.  It can’t be denied, ignored, or refuted.  And according to my sister, I’m cute too.

            It’s a frequent occurrence in my house, the mentioning of “cute”.  And it often is attached to me somehow.  Throughout the course of the day, I apparently do things that are funny, endearing, stupid, silly or bizarre.  I say things that are equally goofy, ridiculous or hilarious, and apparently these silly things create a feeling of affection on the end of others.  Or at least this is true with my sister because she is constantly saying how cute I am.  Forever now I’ve been responding back to this comment with “why?”  or “what did I do?”  I want to understand what thing I did that was weird or silly or particularly funny.  It’s not like I’ve done anything interesting or humorous in my eyes.  I’m just being me.  So what on earth is making her smile and shake her head?  What did I do?

            The other day – after mentioning my cuteness and appropriately being drilled as to the reason of said cuteness – my sister simply said “It’s just in your being”. 

            “My beans?”  I said, jokingly, an old family tradition of purposely mishearing someone’s comments. “I got cute beans?” 

            She smiled, shaking her head. 

            And finally it made sense to me.  I’m like my cat.  And now I no longer need to question the authority or accuracy of my sister’s statements.  Because some of us are just innately created to be wacky, weird, wonderful creatures that make others pick on you, laugh at you, and shake their head in wonder.  So why fight it?  Why question it?  I got cute beans.

nightmare on me street

 

i’m frozen.

it’s early in the morning, and i am afraid to go back to sleep. afraid i will dream again.

i’ve been watching a TV show, which is now off the air. my sister watched the last few seasons of the series before it went off, but since i’d missed the first few, i told her i’d wait and catch the episodes later. so here we are, working our way through the storyline, DVD after DVD. it’s an amazing, addicting, fascinating show. and surprisingly difficult for me.

this show is all about war, and survival. the end of the human race. and maybe you know it, but i’m afraid to write the name down. because it is such an amazing show, and i’m feeling so very besmirched by my own dark side, i wouldn’t want to sully it. because the show’s intensity, and fear, and tension; the dire circumstances, the threat of death at every turn…it all reminds me of childhood. it reminds me of home.

i dreamt a horrible dream last night. a dream where horrible things made me take flight. i was lucky enough, because in this dream the horror wasn’t happening to me, which was not true in my childhood. but i blew the whistle on the situation, and then the flight was mine, and the fight as well. i drew attention to myself, like i’ve done too many times in my life. i don’t know why i can’t just shut myself up. and because i was trying to protect someone else, my life was suddenly being threatened.

so i raced down the hall, knowing that my life was in eminent danger, and tried to bury myself in a room, as if locks and doors could keep away those in power. i ran to the windows to try my way out, but the two in the room were the tiny, slanted windows you find in basements. they were long, foreshortened, narrow and opened up at the top, while staying hinged at the bottom.

and in the dream, it is just like it was in real life: the hard beating of the heart as i try to squeeze my body into a tiny space. the heat of my skin, as my body revs up, preparing itself for a fight to the death. my head pounding, vision unsteady, eyes betraying me and wanting to cry, while my breath is ragged and forcing itself out of my chest. my hands shaking, as i try to do some task – take the screen off the window, HURRY! – while my brain is racing twelve steps ahead, and my body feels like it is running through a field of molasses. i’m wild. i’m feral. this is the place i call “scritchy”. i could claw someone’s eyes out. i could climb myself out of a cavernous pit, just using the chewed-down nails on my fingers to pull myself up with. i’m so goddamned determined to live.

it would have been easier if i’d just laid down and died. in the dream and in real life. it would have been an easier outcome if i’d just ended the whole journey somehow. but in the dream, as in real life, i truly manage to get out the window. and in the dream, as in real life, i still can’t manage to get away in time. i’m caught in the back yard of the house, thinking i will be able to be free finally, of the nauseating scene from inside the walls. but i find this woman outside. she’s one of the bad people, and it doesn’t seem she expected me, but i don’t think she cares. i think she’ll be happy to kill me, surprised or not. so i take my long handled scissors, and plunge them into her.

THAT i never got to do in real life. and thank the gods, because it’s messy. and reminds me a great deal of the TV show i am watching. somehow this show seems to capture it. the horror. the fear. the intense anger. the craziness of it all. and then the need to proceed on to the next day, where it will all start over again, and you will have to continue the same fight, with the same players, and pretend that you have the strength for it, and pretend that you aren’t so tired that if you blink too long you might stay asleep forever. so you pick up your weapon, wipe the blood off of it and your face, and you have yourself some breakfast. corn flakes, perhaps, because those are nice and predictable.

and when you think you are crazy enough, you try to go back to sleep, and tell yourself this time you will dream about marshmallows and dancing colored teddy bears, instead of the life you lived so long ago, that you’ve been trying so desperately to avoid.