I was four, I had told my mom about my dad. That part wasn’t in the memory. The memory started with her coming after me, swinging her fist above her head and down on me. She was screaming, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! That didn’t happen! Shut up! Stop it, stop it, stop it!” And she was whaling on me and at me.
I opened my eyes and reported that to Karl. He said we had to go back in, as usual. I asked what else I needed to see. He wasn’t really sure, so I said I would just pick up after she stopped hitting me and left the room.
I was in fetal position on the floor, calling out to her, screaming “Mommy, mommy, please! MOMMY!” Stuff like that. But then I was quiet. And then as I was laying there, I could still see the me laying there, but the. A different me in different clothes stood up from inside the crying, laying on the floor me. She stood up and walked determinedly with perfect posture down the hallway and into my bedroom.
i said i wanted hypnotherapy because i have days where i don’t know who i am, and if i weren’t co-conscious, i believe i would forget these days and lose the time.
got in touch with some parts.
i have a four year old, a sixth grader, and one who remembers a lot of stuff but not emotionally. she is the one who steps in for me when i am overwhelmed. like when i can’t scooter any more or when rob is doing long boring to me things and i haven’t the patience to wait it out. she is extremely handy and very cool. she is laid back. i like her.
he had me name them so we could keep track.
i didn’t want to, but i had to. it makes sense
but when i was the four year old i couldn’t think of a name except that my grandma called me tricky lou.
or tricky doodle, but tricky lou is less embarrassing.
the sixth grader didn’t want a name at all.
i said amelia because i always liked amelia earhart. so dumb.
oh, well, they can’t all be the world’s best names.
and the cool one who takes over for me said she is a place holder for me, so she said to call her PH.
so. it was an eventful hypnotherapy.
man, i could hear myself talking when i was tricky, and my voice was small and high. so fucking bizarre. i didn’t do it, it just happened.
Walls have come down. The ones I raised between Scott and me. Down. One of my breakthroughs the other day was about this one of me, this one I call G, at first didn’t even know Scott. G knew enough to be polite and junk, at first. But then G started finding fault with most things Scott would say. G wanted to be better and smarter. G knew she is better and smarter. But G felt that Scott didn’t know she is better and smarter. More insightful, ahead of Scott in the evolution, the blossoming into her true self. G’s precociousness knows no bounds. G is a badass. G walks with complete confidence. G never blinks first.
And I am not clear, exactly, how it happened, as I wasn’t G at the time, but it occurred to me that G was pushing me away from Scott. G wasn’t pushing Scott away because Scott is here to stay. So G was pushing me. Trying to make it impossible for me to even like Scott, being he is so much less everything than G is.
But, you know, G is a fragment of a person. G is a sliver in time. Perfectly preserved as she is. At an age young enough to have that complete confidence in her many abilities and fine brain. And old enough to know how to fuck with people. G is a force. I like G. I like G’s walk. I love G’s attitude. I believe in G.
All I had to do was to just not judge. Not judge everything out of Scott’s mouth, everything he typed. And I just stopped. I realized that G was driving the wedge in, and I am not G. G may more than I do about some things, but G doesn’t know that decades have passed. G doesn’t know how unbelievably kind and patient and true Scott is. G doesn’t know he is the one we have been waiting for around here.
I still don’t know how any of this works. But me seeing the damage being done by G was all it took. The decision to just stop was easy peasy. And it took. It actually took. I could feel the change deep I side me when I chose to be different. To not be pushed away. Walls schmalls. I choose living right now and being happy with my person.
The confusing part is that G has been doing this since day one. But I didn’t know then that G is what G is. And when I did know, and I could hear myself being G, I truly felt like she didn’t know Scott. So, how could she have been G-ing him all along if she didn’t know him? Maybe she had never talked to him before. I don’t know. This part, I don’t know.
Thank you, Scott, for accepting our G. You are an amazing man. You are our person.
I had a flashback just now.
I was on my parents bed in our old house, probably three or four. And my dad was doing stuff to me.
And I looked out into the hallway and saw my mom.
If I had been nurtured, I would have been a dynamite person.
I mean, I am a dynamite person.
But, you know, with support, I would have made it out okay.
I guess this is the answer I have been asking for, whether or not she knew. I can only guess what she saw traumatized her to the point of shutting down or something. Because it didn’t end there for me. And she is really messed up, to this day. I imagine she shut down or dissociated or something, because how else could she not stop it and help me? Something happened to her. Either then or before. I don’t know. But that isn’t part of my journey. All I can do for myself is know the facts of her. And save all of the helping for myself.
I am broken. I am seriously broken. Into small parts. Into small parts of my own self. That are basically hiding from me in the depths of my giant brain. And maybe in my heart. Or, like, in my spleen. I mean, honestly, who would look for a person part inside a spleen? I am broken.
There are many ways I have discovered recently in which I am broken. Well, I overspoke. There is one glaring way I have discovered recently in which I am broken. Sexually. I can absolutely have sex and love sex and enjoy the fuck out of sex with you if I like you a lot. I can have same sex if I love you, too. But if I strive to create an atmosphere of intimacy, real intimacy, and of loving, pretty sex, I cannot do it. When I try that, I have unspeakably horrid flashbacks and I thusly panic. And, really, I do cry when I am having like and regular love sex. I cry every time. That’s not normal, either.
To reiterate, if I am sexing you up because I like you or regular love you, pretty fair chances it will go well. And there will be an excess. But if I come to you vulnerably, with intimacy on the line, ready to open up to you in ways I heretofore have never experienced, there is going to be some trouble. I have on hand and in spleen many versions of me for whom sex didn’t go well and was disgustingly inappropriately timed. Those parts do not want me to be vulnerable. Or something. I am not really sure why they send me the flashbacks. I imagine it is to protect me, keep me safe. But why when I am trying to be safe and ensconced with intimate, pretty sex? And with the regular like love sex, I merely get a small crying spell?
These days, my head is so full of thoughts from other mes. It’s full of knowing my perceptions are skewed and correcting them manually. It’s full of knowing I am the wrong me in a certain situation and trying to act as if.
I am growing tired of trying to make my today mes into whatever would be the right me for the other people. The other people who know need to put some effort into this, too. Not just with lip service, but knowing there will absolutely be days where I will be different. And to look out for those days. And try a little harder to go out of your own comfort zones to meet whichever me I am. Sadly, we don’t all respond to people in the same way. How could we? We have all led very different parts of my life.
I am not for everyone. I am broken. It is going to take a lot of time and a fuck of a lot of effort to put this sucker back together again. This is a long haul project. I am not for everyone. I need people who can think on their feet. Who can improvise. Who aren’t going to turn on me and accuse me of not liking them and try to bail on me. I need consistency. I need people who aren’t afraid to know they are broken, too. I need support. Not negative things pointed out to me. I need help. I am broken, goddammit.
I woke confused again. Not the kind of confused like when you are napping at a strange-for-you time and you wake up and can’t of what day it is and what time it is and maybe you should be doing thirteen things already and you are late and where is your child? But the kind where it takes me a minute to place myself. More existential. Like where am I in the way that a drunk wakes with dread to the new day wondering what social or sexual blunders she has committed and whether or not it really matters at all. Like trying to remember what you did when you don’t remember what you did. Because there are more than one you. And, really, it could be days later than you remember, not just hours.
It’s a very familiar feeling for me. I watched and listened to myself handle the confusion. After a beat, my mind swept it under a rug and seamlessly went on as if nothing present was completely crazy. An instant spin. Nothing to see fear, folks. Move along. But in that instant of covering up the weirdness, about a million things went down in my brain. I processed the situation with such speed and nimbleness, highly proficient in dealing with that which makes no sense to the naked brain. As if I was born doing this, to do this. To go on as if everything were normal and lovely and where is my cereal.
I tried to process my processing as it lighted by, leaving a hum in the space behind my forehead. The part that my furrow controls. From what I gathered, I didn’t know who I was for a flash. I assimilated the view from my apartment sofa and finessed that I was indeed at my apartment on the sofa, and I recalled that my mother had been here last night for laundry and extensive smart phone lessons. But it wasn’t like a recalling of things that happened to me. It was like I had memorized a fake alibi.
And I believe that when this happens, there is a certain amount of anxiety that arrives in my chest. It’s as if I am covering for a murder or something and it really is an alibi. And I struggle to make sense of what perhaps I had intended to do on this day. Was I going to mow? Was I supposed to be buying Rob foods? Do I have any money at all in my bank account? What was this day to be? And is it too late for it to be that? How can I still fit in all of the things even though the time is later than it should be? And I bargain with time and rearrange it, like we do when the alarm goes off and we hit snooze. And then we do all of the nine-minute math.
I believe I have been able to do this DID thing for so long without ever getting caught because I am crazy smart. Smart about my crazy. My brain is highly complex. Like, seriously, dudes. In fact, I was never caught for being molested, either. of course, my mother was an easy fool. She saw it and didn’t see it. She can process things in a way that makes them never have happened. It’s a lesser form of this brain sport. But, of course, she never has had any confidence in her intellectual capabilities. She hides what she can and forgets the rest. I think it’s sloppy. Were it not for her dedication to unknowing, she would have failed long ago and would have to admit that things happened.
I don’t like this anxiety. It isn’t clean. Points will be deducted for style.
Last last night, early this morning in fact, I didn’t feel in any way capable of communicating with the mes. But I tried, anyway. I asked that if they had anything to share to please feel free, now and always. I said some kind, soothy things. And after my mom popped downstairs and said something she didn’t need to say as the obvious result she was after was to upset me, I asked the mes if they know why that stuff gets to me sometimes when I could easily ignore her and not give her that power.
Flash forward to my needing nap. Rob had had an enormous meltdown before school, a kind of meltdown where I was worried he would break the dishwasher or something, because scratch.mit.edu was down and stayed down for a long long time, and that is his one go-to website before school. It didn’t help that we went to the Is It Down Now? website to check if it was down or if it was on our end, because Rob kept refreshing that age, and he became more and more upset. So we were a little late for school. I told him we would wait until it was back up because how he feels in more important than being on time for school. Once I got home from taking him in, I was already beat. So, the nap.
I had one of my EXTREMELY vivid dreams. The kind where I can actually direct what happens a little bit. This one was disturbing, at best. The dream had the usual characters who are involved in my crap dreams: my mother, my brother, and my father. He comes back in these dreams as a drunk, dumbass, and we all know he died, but we stopped reacting to his presence as if it’s freaky. It’s like, oh, there is dead drunk dad again.
In the dream, my dead drunk dad kept trying to grab at me and fondle me and grope me and kiss me. And other things. I got away from him many times. But then it occurred to me that I needed someone to see it happen. So, I made the dream kind of reset. My dad came at me and I honestly couldn’t get away. And my mom walked in and totally saw it. My dad stopped and those two walked off together, with their heads together, discussing how I always do things wrong. How things are my fault. And my mom assumed that whole my dad attacking me was my fault. And then she was telling him about the money I used for emergencies.
I saw her a little later and I was, like, what the fuck? You saw what he did. And she said why, no, I didn’t see anything like that.
This same basic thing played out a few more times. Once with my brother watching. But then he turned into Chris, and Chris got right in my dad’s face and really let him have it. He yelled at him, then he yelled at my mom. But it was like they couldn’t hear it. But in my dream I was happy that someone believed me. I am not really sure if that was Chris or my brother believing me. But my mom never, ever did.
There is another layer to this dream, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing it yet.
I feel like the dream was a way for me to know she did know but pretended she didn’t. And it also answered the question of why I let her effect me instead of ignoring her. I have serious rage issues about her.
Now that school is in, I am going to really dig in and work on this stuff. I took today off, because I do that every first day of school. You know, I got him through the summer alive! Woo! And then I nap.
Anyway, I hadn’t said anything to anyme today, so a little while ago I sort of cleared my throat and said I would like to have a meeting, and that any of them who would like to come may come. And then I said something like, you know, not any one of us is more important than any other one of us. Just because I am doing the talking certainly doesn’t mean I am any better than anyme. And it hit me. I actually know the very least about myself. About my history, about who I was, about what happened in my life. I know nothing. I know what they tell me. I am just the talking head. I am the least important part as far as who I am goes. I am extremely impaired. I have a sketchy at best idea of who I am. I am just a reactive duties-doer of a highly dysfunctional collection of parts whom together make up the whole of me. I am Coach Buttermaker. I am Professor Harold Hill. The head in front of the curtain the man hides behind.
This is very interesting to think about.
I want to prove to the others that I am strong now. I will not let anyone hurt them ever again. They are safe. Plus, the bastard is dead and has been for seventeen years. They are all stuck in time. But not me. I am the doofus up front for the ages. I could have doofed my way through more decades if I hadn’t figured out that I am just a head. I am going to make sure I do this work. I am not just another pretty, useless head.
It’s surprising to me that I will play a key role in all of this. The leader. The organizer. The Parts Whisperer. That’s a lot for me. Me who knows nothing. Maybe we could find the one who knows the most and put her in charge.
Heh, I was reading that some parts have natural talents that went missing when the part closed herself off. What if I can really sing? Or do handstands? I know I have a part that loves to cook. And a daredevil part that isn’t afraid to try a flip on the trampoline or to snowboard or sled backwards. She really wants to bungee jump. One of me was good at soccer. One of me is an excellent writer. One is a mathlete. One loves the biology of bugs and trees and birds. Today’s me likes to nap.
I am going to have to try new things. More talking to them. Being nicer to myself. Maybe writing with my left hand. Maybe that notebook idea where I leave a notebook or seven around the house, easily accessible to my peeps. I have to gather information. It’s possible if I ask questions, I will get answers. I will have to believe whatever pops into my head. Which is something I have learned to do through therapy, especially EMDR. It’s probably natural to question those things, but I think we all (you guys, too) should pay attention to what our brains are trying to tell us.
I was disappointed this weekend that dirty sex me wasn’t around for Scott’s visit. But I think the right me was there. I felt largely relaxed and easy and go with the flowy. I wasn’t argumentative. Except for panicking while trying to leave to pick Scott up at the airport and the thing at Kroger with the expensive meat, I feel like I was pretty even. But not numb even. Pleasant even. Of course, I do not know how Scott perceived me.
I also would like some sort of sign or signal when there is switching.
This is maddening. I am not good with strangers. I am not good at being a stranger to myself. I like to know everything. If not everything, as much as possible.
I thought giving them names was dumb. Some kind of trick to make it all seem more normal. But that isn’t true. Well, it may be true. But that isn’t the only reason. It’s got to be easier. I don’t have to use human names. Maybe types or kinds of patterns of fabric. Like, damask or suzani or ikat. Or Greek goddesses. Or stripper names.