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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.

 

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   😀

discounted beer

discounted beer
Not like it matters. Because what can you do about it now? But I wish I’d known it was going to be this exhausting. I mean, it’s a roller coaster, and once you’re on, what can you do? Jump off in mid-air? Of course not. You’re fucked. You just have to hold on to your shit and ride it out till the fucking car stops, then go throw up over the railing and hopefully not onto the next batch of thrill seekers as they wait in line for the damn ride.
And it’s not like I could stop anything anyway. Now that I know, it’s not like I’m going to go “Hey, WHOA, stop the presses. You can’t make me do this. I REFUSE to be insane”. I mean, at this point, it’s a given. A done deal. I’m kind of certifiable and I’m on a one way street with no u-turns and no off ramps. I’m here. In crazy land. So what’s to do about it?

But still, maybe if I had known somehow, how tiring it would be. How mentally un-invigorating it was. Maybe if I’d known that it would make me want to sleep for days, or drink for weeks, or consider taking several illicit drugs at once, maybe I could have prevented my mental instability in the first place. Then again, it’s not like you can explain the pros and cons of creativity versus insanity to a three year old. But it’s a nice idea, to think about what it might be like to have a life where you are not constantly drained of energy and life force. To have a day when you aren’t scrambling to figure out what your own brain is thinking, or where your own thoughts are going. To have a day where you remember what your agenda was, and how to do difficult tasks like walking in a straight line, or breathing through your nose. It’s a challenge just to stay employed when you would rather be playing video games, or watching cartoons on TV while you remain in your pajamas all day and eat nothing but ice cream and pizza. And maybe a bowlful of Doritos. It’s a bit of a stretch to answer questions like “what’s wrong?” or “how are you doing?” when you honest-to-god don’t know the answer. How do you explain to people that you are just a ten year old in a forty year old woman’s body?

So back to the exhausting part. God I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks. People have commented on how bad I look this week, which is always flattering, and even though I’ve felt sick and wondered about having the flu, I reckon it’s mostly lack of sleep. And my therapist says I have dark circles under my eyes that she’s never seen before. Of course she has only known me for about a year, so she isn’t familiar with this routine. The insomnia. The monthly cycles of sleep/don’t sleep; stay up ‘till the Wicked hours of the night, then sleep ‘till noon; go to bed early and wake up too soon and not be able to fall asleep at night. She doesn’t know about these familiar habits; or at least we haven’t emphasized them much to her. She seems to think we need to take our meds, and see our doctor, and maybe that will help. I tried to tell her. I tried to explain that what I needed was a good pint of tequila, or a shot of whiskey, or even just a couple of beers. She laughs. “No, that won’t be good for work,” she says. Who said anything about work? I said BEER. I’m sure I enunciated it properly. B-EE-EEE-R.

I don’t know why they haven’t come up with a discount rate for insomniacs or crazies, verifiable by one’s therapist. I’d like to present a coupon to my nearest liquor store worker: “This Coupon entitles the Bearer to the largest possible bottle of Tequila on the Premises. Said Bearer will receive a 25% discount on purchase of such Bottle, owing to a lack of mental awareness which only said Tequila can replenish. Please consider this a Medicinal Purchase, and Frequent Drinker Miles apply. In dire situations, Beer of choice may be substituted for Tequila, but must then be accompanied by several packs of cigarettes or containers of Hookah tobacco. For any questions regarding the validity of this coupon, or the seriousness of the Bearer’s insanity, first

1. Look at Bearer of Coupon.

2. Notice dazed look on face and vacant expression in eyes.

3. Note the rocking back and forth motion as Bearer re-counts money in pocket for a fourth time.

4. If all else does not convince you, ask for card and number of therapist and call immediately.

 
 

 

 

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….

cartoons, rain and mean trees

today has been …. interesting.  right now the wind outside is fierce and howly, the sky dark and foreboding, and the trees are shaking so much they look like villains in a horror movie.  but it’s been a lovely, melancholy rainy kind of day.

it didn’t really start out that way at first.  i had a trigger this morning.

usually a trigger that makes me switch personalities, or go into a post traumatic type of mindset is fairly upsetting; a violent scene in a movie, or a killer with an axe is a sure bet; loud, thumpy music that invades my home via the neighbor’s car; smells i can’t avoid.  all these things can trigger me and send me into a panic, or switch me right out of my current personality and into something/someone i’m not prepared for.

today, however, it was a cartoon!  just lounging around the house today as my sister got ready for work, and she had on old cartoons.  i love the Flintstones, so i was surprised when i became anxious while watching an episode, and so distressed i had to turn the channel.  then i was just flipping out for a while.  something about this particular episode triggered me – one of me anyway – and it took some fresh air, a little rain, and Jimmy John’s to make things right in my world again.

damn dangerous cartoons!

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.

a step, nonetheless

I’m feeling proud of myself this weekend.  Ok, I haven’t graduated with honors, or climbed Mt. McKinley, or single handedly remodeled my kitchen.  Though, God, that would be awesome.  My kitchen is so small it’s more like a cupboard than a room. 

 

Life can become a lot.  There are always obligations to deal with; someone’s having a baby, and you have to go to the shower, and you’re not sure if it will come out very cute, and if not what do you say?  You don’t want to lie and say the child is adorable – BIG FAT LIE! – but it’s considered fairly rude to openly proclaim to a new mother that her baby looks like Rodney Dangerfield’s runt cousin, even if it’s pretty blatantly obvious.  Someone I knew once had a baby, and seriously, this was one unattractive situation.  “Aren’t you so sweet?” is usually pretty safe.  But you might have other obligations, like parties to attend, or commitments to activities, or just standard, unexciting things like chores.  Get the oil changed.  Mow the lawn.  Dismember a body, if you happen to be Dexter Morgan.  That type of thing.

 

I can’t always do these things.  Not the dismembering, because generally speaking I don’t kill people as a hobby or profession.  But there are things I can’t always do, for a variety of reasons, though the reasons pretty much all fall under the category of MPD.  Like my sister and I might be planning on going to a movie, but I have a problem with some aspect of my health.  Or I’m supposed to do laundry, but I have anxiety over going to the Laundromat because of past situations and issues.  Or I need to drive over to a friend’s house, but I’m ‘little’.  A typical person makes a list for the day, week, or when they get inspired to actually do something.  It might look like this:

  1. make dinner
  2. no, go get groceries, then make dinner
  3. email granny about her hip
  4. clean up that mess that came from an animal
  5. put away toys, weapons and victims
  6. watch that movie you rented before it’s due

 

That list doesn’t seem so hard.  But for me, or someone like me (crazy) this can be an issue. 

 

My mind doesn’t always want to go in one direction.  My sister’s brain is awesomely linear, so if she loses the car keys she can re-trace her steps and find them.  When I lose them she tries this trick with me, but it rarely works.  For one thing, my mind thinks so many thoughts in a teeny amount of time, it’s really hard to re-trace.  Just while I was in the shower today I thought of five blogs I wanted to write about, a new idea for a graphic novel, a word I was curious about, and had a curiosity about fetishes and disorders.  That’s when I wasn’t wondering about why I’ve been so tired this weekend, how I was going to go for a walk if it ends up being hot again today, or why the sponge in the bathtub never seems to stink as much as the one by the sink.  My brain thinks a trillion little thoughts, all the time, and I really wish someone would invent a bodycamera so I could just push a button on my neck when I wanted to capture the idea that is fleeting through my brain at that particular moment.  Re-tracing all this to find the car keys is nigh unto impossible.  And besides, you don’t really plan on putting your keys in the fridge because you forgot how thirsty you are and you can’t get the jug of water open with just the one hand.  Or tucking them into a utensil drawer because you forgot to put away the pizza knife, which can be very distracting to some of us who like sharp, shiny objects that cause skin irritation and blood. 

 

And I get distracted.  So logical regression of activities is difficult for that reason, because I’m sidetracked so often I can’t remember what I was originally doing.

 

What WAS I originally doing? 

Oh yeah!  Being proud of myself.      Well yeah, for these weird reasons (and the fact that my body is inhabited by other people from time to time)  it’s not always practical to expect myself to do things exactly when I think I will do them.  I WANT to be a good housekeeper….but I get inspired by something, or distracted by something, or turn into someone who just wants to color all night.  So I’ve been hard on myself, and mad that I can’t make a schedule and keep to it and get some shit done, in my house and in my writing career, and in my life in general.  But this weekend I did make some progress.  I made a chart.  I plotted out some tasks I needed to do.  I gave myself a rough guideline and goal, without demanding exact adherence from myself.  And though I haven’t gotten to everything that I’d hoped I could get to, I did actually do some of what I’d wanted.  So good job, kid.  A small step, but a step nonetheless.

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.

trapped…

I haven’t had much to say lately. 

It’s not that I haven’t had the creativity, because it seems my creative engine is almost always at a constant purr.  It may be the time factor.  Once I finish off a work shift, I am often too tired to do anything productive, and so if I have days and days in a row (which happens often) I just don’t get around to doing much of anything except watching TV.  But even outside of the time factor, I’ve been having a hard time describing. 

 Lately my communication has been garbled.  I can’t seem to find the words to express what I want to say.  And beyond that, I can’t seem to remember things as well, or grab up the information from my brain that I need to use for various situations.

 And beyond that as well, I seem to be a floater.  It feels like I’m in a vague, non-descript personality.  Maybe one that knows the right things to say, knows the people they should interact with, but doesn’t really own any feelings of her own.  There are just no emotions in there.  Well, I enjoy things, like my morning walks, a good meal, shows that I love, a meaningful chat with someone; but this person that is driving right now feels very far away;  trapped, maybe, like shut up in a glass tower. 

 So maybe that’s why I haven’t been writing much on here; I’m trapped in a tower and can’t get to my laptop?