Tuesday, September 13, 2011

6/28/2002

Bad switchy day. Some of yesterday's writings have the littles in some intense turmoil. We cut this morning *frown* which all by itself is reason enough to take a break on the harder writing for a few days. I am hoping for a good weekend. There is a lot to do. Guess we'll see.
I am pretty confused right now. I always get something interesting when I let my fingers do the typing and let my mind take a hike. Scary stuff.
Except tonight when it would seem there is nothing to look at in here.

Marisa

The Unspeakable Me

6/27/2002

{This is one of those out of order entries. Will write it out and find where it goes later.}

There was no one to play with today. She was feeling bored and lonely as she skipped up the street. She had seen one of her brothers go into the woods with some friends earlier. They were building a fort up there. Maybe she could go find them.

As she got to the top of the hill on her street she slowed down. The woods were scary and she didn't want to go in alone. Mr. Madis had told her that the bears in the woods would eat her and even though he had laughed, she knew grown-ups didn't lie. Five years old was too big to be such a scardy cat and she never told anyone why she didn't play alone in the woods anymore. She didn't like getting laughed at and people always laughed when she was scared.

Henry was a neighbor boy that lived up the street. He was standing on the sidewalk looking into the woods where the boys had gone.

"Do you know where's Randy?"

Henry looked at her for several seconds before answering. "Yeah. Do you want me to take you?"

She nodded and joined him. He was 12 and big like her brothers so he wouldn't let the bears get her. Together they walked along the path into the woods. She looked up at his face and wondered if he ever counted his freckles. Nobody she had ever met had so many freckles. They covered even his arms and legs. His hair was so red and his skin was as white as the paste she used in Mrs. Westinghouse's class at school. Maybe that's why her brothers didn't like him.

They came to the clearing where bits of plywood and boards had been put together to create an oddly shaped lean-to that her brothers and their friends would hang out in. There were cigarette butts in the leaves around the little structure and lots of trash, but no boys. Maybe they had already gone home?

Turning to ask Henry if he knew where they went, she saw he was gone. Fear knotted her stomach. What if the boys were gone because they saw the bear? Tears springing to her eyes, she ran back the way she'd come. She was so far in the woods you couldn't see any of the houses on her street.

Someone grabbed her from behind and she screamed. Henry put his hand over her mouth and said he knew where Randy had gone. If she would be quiet, he would take her there. So, taking his hand, she walked with him away from the path into the darker part of the woods. They walked and walked until Henry stopped and said the boys must be on their way. "Why don't we wait here for them?"

Something in the girl's stomach began to tighten as Henry leaned his back against a tree and held his hand out to her. "Come here. I have to take a piss."

Shocked at the cuss word, she shook her head and refused to move.

"I'll give you quarter to watch me take a piss. Betcha never saw how boys do it, did ya?"

The knot in her stomach felt as big as she was and she couldn't hear anything over the sudden sound of buzzing and screaming in her ears. Everything got jumpy and funny looking like when the t.v. didn't work. She couldn't move or talk but could see the little girl in a dress like her own, walking over to Henry. It never occurred to her to wonder who the other girl was. Somehow it seemed normal.

The little girl who was not her took Henry's hand. When he unzipped his pants and told her to get on her knees, she did as she was told.

The girl who stood watching knew this was a bad thing. She wanted to tell the other girl to run and tell her brothers but she was rooted to the spot and could not make her hands move to cover her eyes.

She watched as the little girl obeyed when told to suck on the thing the boy held in his hand. She could feel it in her own mouth as he grabbed the little girl's head and yanked her forward. She could feel the attempts to breathe as her nose was pressed into flesh and his hands in her hair as he began to pull her head back and forth while hissing instructions to her. She idly wondered if Henry was going to pee in that other girl's mouth.

----

She was in bed. Her hand was on the dirty place between her legs and she jerked it away. Could God see when she did those things? Did he tell mommy? She vaguely remembered the girl in the woods and wondered where she was now. Could she hear the screams of "dirty girl!" and "Don't you ever do that!" that seemed to still echo in her mind? Did she too live with the terror of mommy knowing what she had done?

She closed her eyes when she heard the footsteps of her mommy in the hall. She concentrated on keeping still and breathing slowly so she would not be caught awake in the dark. She let herself relax and smile after mommy's footsteps faded down the hall. With a look at the door cracked to let the hall light in, she curled up, scooted her back close to the wall and let the now gentle voices lull her to sleep.

Monday, September 12, 2011

let me call you shithead

6/27/2002



nuff said

it's Captain Paranoia time

6/28/2002



okay, so i'm being weird, i know.

K has an online diary too and won't tell me her name. now, rational logic tells me she's a teenager and needs her privacy. being the oldest of 5 kids she doesn't get as much as she needs. she babysits a lot and the younger ones generally drive her bonkers. she also scratches her arm once in a while and punches things (gee, where'd she learn that from?) which she knows worries me terribly. being the oldest she's also got that hyper responsible thing going on where she thinks everything is her fault.

so here i am, worrywort mom, knowing all this and knowing that K has a diary makes me want to spy on her and find it so i can either confirm or set to rest my worries.

no, i won't. it would be different of i thought she were a serious danger to herself or using drugs or whatever, but she's not. for the most part she's a really well balanced typical teen. she's got self-image issues like most kids her age and the same concerns and worries of her peers. she's been 'seen' by professionals who have assured her she's quite 'normal'. i have to remind myself of that so i don't give into paranoia and snoop. being the kid of someone with DID is not easy. no matter how hard we try, we're gonna screw up just like anyone else, but there's this part of me (no pun intended) that's convinced she wants a private diary so she can rail about how hideous i am.
i even thought of asking reese to talk to her but when i brought it up to reese she informed me that she was NOT going to be my spy. (Good move Reese!) She said that even when she and Stpehanie talk to K that they only relay to me what they think is necessary for me to know. i don't know whether to laugh or cry that even my inside teens have banded together against the nosy mom.

okay, paranoid ramblings over. i'm sure those of you reading this will agree that it would be crossing the line big time if i violate her privacy, and you can relax. i won't. but at least understand the way a parent thinks when they care for and are concerned for their kid. love makes us do STUPID things at times. at least here in my diary i can write about something before jumping to act and screwing up. i hope.

marisa

Insanity quiz

Insanity quiz 6/22/2002
1.Have you ever taken goggles into the shower with you? Ummm nope
2.Have you ever stared at the blobs in a lava lamp for more than an hour? Yes
3. Do you feel bad for a spider when someone steps on it? Nope
4. Have you ever wondered why M&M's are the color they are? nope
5. Did you memorize how to spell supercalafragilisticexpealedocious? yup
6. Do you know the names of all the American presidents? hhuh? Who?
7. Do you still wonder if Elvis is alive? He’s a relative of hubby’s. it’s a family conspiracy, we’re helping him hide.
8. Have you ever tried to jump off the roof of your house? Yup. Succeeded too
9. Do you own a Chia-pet? nope
10. Do you consider all blondes to be dumb? nope
11. Do you have 0 TV's in your house? nope
12. Do you have more than 10 pets living in your house? If fish count, yeah
13. Is your favorite movie of all time rated G? yup
14. Do you have an Atari system in your house? nope
15. Do you buy more than 5 cd's a week? Not lately
16. Is your favorite color tangerine? nope
17. Is your favorite food turtle soup? Nah, he’s too cute to eat
18. Do you spend more time in your house than you do with your friends? Yeah, so? If I leave the penguins will find me again!!!!!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!
19. Have you ever watched an entire episode of the teletubbies? They scare the hell out of me, but yes
20. Did you ever have an imaginary friend when you were little? Still do
21. Do you ever talk to yourself? OMG all the f*cking time!!!!
22. Do you sing in the shower? Best acoustics in the house
23. Do you have more than 5 body piercings? Yup
24. Do you have hidden video cameras in your house? Not anymore
25. Did you ever think that the government was spying on you? They have dammit!!!
26. Do you cover yourself in tin-foil, and put coat hangers on the ceiling? Nope, gives me a rash
27. Do you make things out of dollar bills when you are bored at the lunch table? Yup but I don’t got to school so no lunch table
28. Have you ever won a contest in which you had to guess "How many jellybeans are in the jar"? nope
29. Have you ever trash picked? Yeah, Dad used to take us dumpster diving. oh the joy
30. Can you fling stuff out of your nose? Yes, but not usually on purpose
31. Do you know the meaning of life? Yes, it’s 42
32. Have you ever picked on someone smaller than you, just because you thought it would be funny? You mean like short ppl? Hell yes. It’s hard to find ppl shorter than me, gotta take advantage of it,
33. Do you count down the amount of days left in the school year? yup
34. Do you often see things that aren't really there? yup
35. Do you see dead people? Only in the funeral parlor
36. Is this a yes or no question? I give up? Which is it?
37. Have you ever worn clothes that belonged to someone else? Yup
38. Do you enjoy tight clothing? As long as I can still breathe in it
39. Have you ever gone a whole week without brushing your teeth? yup
40. Do you sleep with the lights on? yeah
41. Do you consider money to be a form of evil? Nope, it’s the LOVE of money dopey
42. Have you ever played bloody knuckles? Yup
43. Have you ever had the urge to have a pickle and peanut butter sandwich? Nope, thank g*d
44. Have you ever had a crush on a teacher? *sheepishly hiding face* I still love you mr. Clendaniel!
45. Do you believe fairy tales do come true? yup
46. Do you enjoy using yo-yo's? yup
47. Do you believe in superstition? I believe it exists but not in participating
48. Do you like DIET soda? Gag
49. Do you watch cartoon shows every day? yeah
50. Do you read books for fun? Duh, no it’s a form of self-torture

okay, 2% times number of yes answers.....

*drum roll please*

60%... maybe our shrink could just use this and save himself time... LOL

reese

Sunday, September 11, 2011

PMS

6/26/2002

I so hate this time of month...

Never see it coming. Time is so elastic and unpredictable for me sometimes, actually trying to keep track of days just adds to the confusion.

About the only upside to this is that at least poor Charlie doesn't have to deal with us all in separate bodies PMS-ing at once. With three daughters, he already has that to look forward to in a couple of years. Poor guy.

Joking aside... being sick is a HUGE giant monster of a trigger. For at least 2 days (during the full moon even... double whammy) every month, I’m down for the count. I could let one of the other girls take the lead, but Stephanie is the last person you want around AND cranky. Reese already has me worried and since we already have a history of needing ER visits and stitches around this time; it's not a chance to take. I don't know what it is that triggers her either. It’s not something she'll talk about and I doubt I’ll figure it out without her.

Even without knowing just what the deal is, besides the obvious hormonal crap, I feel it. Tried upping the Zoloft during this time but because of the aforementioned time problems, it didn't help. Can’t curl up in bed for 2 days either since the house goes to hell in a hand basket if I take a nap.

Oh well... whatever is behind it, right now it's all I can do not to just curl in on myself and try to disappear. On top of that, promised myself that next week with Dr. C i won't talk for 45 minutes about the small stuff before tiptoeing into the area of the sexual abuse. It’s the same every time. By the time I get up the guts to approach it, it's too late to take a close look. I know that on some level, this is intentional but it's getting very frustrating. One of us, and it's best if it's me, needs to just jump in at the start of a session and go.

I hate switching in front of people. All of us are uncomfortable with it. One of my big concerns is getting deep enough into the feelings surrounding the memories that I’ll lose control and have somebody we don't know come out and abreact something I’m not prepared for. Even after 3 years of treatment since Levia (Control) stepped back and let the girls come forward again, it's still weird. Charlie and the kids are the only ones that we feel safe with in that respect. At home we're not sitting in the hot seat being watched by a professional being paid to listen.

Ack, I’m rambling now... sheesh. Well, let's see... switching sucks. PMS sucks. Triggers suck. Losing time sucks and while we're at it, the whole situation sucks. Feeling a major hormonal fit coming on over how wrong it is that any of this had to happen in the first place. Better go to bed before Charlie makes the mistake of looking at me wrong and getting his face chomped off.

Marisa

Couple of new triggers

6/25/2002


Well not entirely new. One is an old one but it hit hard last night.

Went out to eat at a BBQ place and ate several plates of ribs. Since I’ve eaten an average of only one meal a day for most of the last few years, my stomach was not prepared. Went and purged halfway thru then went back and had more. Yeah, not very smart. To make matters worse I had to take Kristen to shop for pants and shorts.

Felt bad enough about weight, size, and height before last night. Shopping for Kristen and hoping to find something Reese and Stephanie were comfortable with was a nightmare. Almost collapsed in tears in the middle of Wal-Mart because it's practically impossible to find fairly stylish clothes that don't make me look like middle aged mom or wannabe teen, that also happen to be available in my size. Can’t seem to find a happy medium where everyone inside is happy with the clothes and being only 5'2" and in double digit sizes is more than some of us can stand.

Going to try to keep the whole issue of food at bay for now. We simply have enough to deal with... will probably have to face up to it sooner or later, but since we're maintaining and not purging more than every couple of months, I’m not in a rush.

The other trigger was this evening, but it has a big upside. Amelia was playing cards with the kids, there was an argument and some upset with the kids. Now, usually when this happens, Amelia will dash inside and come crying for me to go 'out'. This time she held in and even got mad (which floored my kids), refusing to play anymore. She told Rachel that she didn't like being treated like a baby by her. She told Charlie that it was no fun playing with them because they fight all the time.

The best part though, was that she stayed. Usually she will get frightened and run, because growing up, any conflict with anyone resulted in her taking the blame/punishment/responsibility. It didn't matter who it was or how much older and wiser the other person in the conflict... we'd get the blame. Right down to the blame when Randy ran away. He was 13, I was 6. For the first time we could remember, he got in trouble for tormenting us, and got so angry he ran away for 3 days. We were the easiest target for mum's anger and frustration. Didn’t help that the rest of the boys, Ben and Chris in particular, really nailed it home that it was our fault he was gone.

*sigh* the thing is, Amelia... my sweet little who doesn't like to get near the painful stuff... is talking about it. Last night at the restaurant, a fire truck passed. For the first time she talked about why she used to be so terrified of sirens. I suppose, now that she knows she is safe from being 'taken away' in an ambulance or police car, she could talk about where the belief came from. It was safe to 'tell' on our brothers because Charlie won't call her a bad girl or tattletale for it.

Surprise, surprise... Chris, Ben, Randy and Rod all went out of their way to tell us, starting around age 2 that because we were bad, they were coming to get us and take us away. (When Suzie wasn't shut in the bedroom she was threatened with being taken away! no wonder we kept splitting into new parts to deal with things.) Knowing all our lives that we were adopted and not 'real' family... what an effect that had! It’s no wonder we were known up and down the street for this fear. The sound of a siren would send us screaming and pounding on the nearest door. From what I’ve been told, often we just went in without knocking.

I’ve seen in my own kids how innocent and believing toddlers are. Those idiotic people who tell little kids “you are so cute! How about if I steal you and take you home with me?” That’s not a joke to a two year old and it's almost cruel the pleasure that people get from doing that.

So, chalk up a couple more memories dragged into the light and looked at. I’m proud of Amelia and understand better why she and Suzie are inseparable. She can put into words the things Suzie just can't yet.

Marisa

Saturday, September 10, 2011

It's Not All Bad

6/23/2002

This is for you Lyn, some good memories to go with the bad.
1975? I was reminded of this reading someone’s entry about the best movie ever. I remember pulling taffy in the kitchen while watching “Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory”. It was one of Dad's loving father nights. One of those times when he was being the parent he deep down wanted to be. A sober night. A gentle night filled with laughter instead of rage. There’s nothing better than being 6 years old and being invited into sweet, sticky, messy, candy making fun. Most of the seven of us children (before my younger brother and sister) jammed into the kitchen together enjoying a very special treat.
All my kids love this movie too. It’s one of those special childhood things I’ve gotten to share with them.

1978? I remember lying draped over the end of my bed with Chris slouching in my chair while we watched Willy Wonka. We were in my room and sharing the memories of the taffy. We enjoyed a rare moment of feeling wanted and a part of something. It was nice sharing the fun of imagining what adventures and tummy aches we'd have if there were a world such as that. Dreaming of our own golden ticket.

Marisa and Someone Small and Smiling.

Could It Be Getting Better?

6/23/2002

It seems we’ve finally found a medication that helps. Now, even with what we are doing in therapy, Stephanie has not 'needed' to get drunk since the last weeks of rehearsal for the play last May. Even with the little note issue last week, she didn't fly off the handle. She handled it extremely well. Yeah, Reese cut yesterday. I knew she would, but don't blame her. I understand and that's why we didn't try to keep her from it again. She needed some release from the memories being triggered. Stacy is a bit scared, as is Amber. Amelia got a little hyper about the issue of sexual abuse but has settled a lot since talking to Charlie about it.

We have situational depression mostly. Caused by the stuff we're dealing with, but for the first time since I was 9 years old and really began to even be aware of things, the black hole, lead bodied, chest squeezing, mind numbing depression, is easing. Something has changed and maybe it isn't the meds. Maybe it's a combination of things. We’re sleeping sound for the first time in years thanks to Ristoril. Maybe lack of REM sleep was making things worse? I don't know and I don't care.

We've dealt with each crisis as it comes up, talked about what we needed to in therapy instead of avoiding, and we haven't crumbled. Heck, even the girls are voluntarily talking to someone other than Charlie! Getting them to talk to Dr. C or Lyn usually took things being ready to explode.

Don’t know. Need to talk to Charlie and Dr. C about it and Lyn when she gets back this weekend. Have to make sure this isn't a moment of psychotic ramblings. However, if history serves, they'll confirm what they've already seen and as usual, we'll be the last ones to figure it out!

It doesn’t mean no one in The Crew is depressed. Some are and for reasons we can pinpoint. Things we can deal with and help them heal from, but this is the first time ever that the depression is not systemic. It’s the first time we faced such hard memories and not had to be on 24/7 guard against suicidal alters. Something is changing and it's a good feeling to see that in all this butt kicking work we're dragging ourselves thru, we're actually getting closer to the bottom of this barrel of nightmares.

It's about doggone time.

Marisa

Friday, September 9, 2011

Starting Over

6/22/2002

so much for 6 months. finally did it. couldn’t take it anymore. i lost a lot from the way my hands shake and my heart is doing double time. drink a couple of quarts of water and some juice and no problem. all better.
i tried and made 6 mos. well now we start over i guess. but maybe i’m not ready to start over yet. maybe i need to do it again tomorrow or next week. maybe all this stuff will swallow me whole and i’ll start and not be able to stop. i dunno anymore.
just know that i feel better and now we can do what we need to do for now.

reese

November 1983 "The First Time"

6/20/2002

She was so cold. She could not remember ever having been so cold. Her entire body felt as if it were convulsing rather than shivering. She half wondered if her teeth could chip from the force of the chattering. Trying to concentrate on relaxing in hopes it would lessen the shivering, she laughed. When had she ever been relaxed?

A helicopter passed overhead and she instinctively crouched lower on the roof. Don't be stupid. No one's looking for you and even if they are they wouldn't send out a helicopter. It's just the chopper for the hospital. Knowing this was true she still could not shake the fear that she would be found and sent back home without anyone hearing her cries.

Feeling chastised by the voice, she moved to stand up. Her legs felt rubbery and unsteady. How long had she been sitting there? Looking down at her legs, she noticed she was still holding the glass. The blood had dried on her hand. When she pried her fingers apart, the glass stayed stuck to her thumb. Almost falling rather than bending to her knees, she roughly scraped her whole hand across the roof. Even after the glass came off, she kept scraping trying to get some of the blood off her hand and half hoping to take the skin off as well.

A jolt of pain stopped her and she stood looking at her hands. She knew as she pulled her sleeves down as far as they would go that she couldn't walk anywhere with all the blood on her hands. Someone would be sure to notice. There were several office buildings across the street. Maybe one was open.

Keeping low as she crossed the roof she listened to the voices that had become almost constant companions in the last year. Right now, it sounded more like a conversation, but that was unusual. Most of the time they accused or demanded and sounded almost like an opera she had once seen, with each voice speaking it’s own part but somehow blending into one chorus. She could not always understand the words and would often concentrate just to hear them. She felt so disconnected from the sounds. Were they even her thoughts? They seemed to belong to someone else and talked about her more than to her. They frightened her.

Climbing down the building and walking toward the road, she tried to think back to when she had first heard them. It began in her dreams. The dreams of a girl only five years old.

They were a crowd of little black spots. She could hear them speaking to her in her sleep and could see herself alone, off in the corner. She always knew she was unwanted by the crowd that spoke the mean words about her.

When she woke up from the first dream, she remembered it and all they said, with intense clarity. She tried to forget the words but they would only echo louder in her mind. She pretended that the dream had been the same as the cartoon on “Sesame Street”, with the one all alone being wanted and accepted by the group. That was better and did not make her feel so sad.

The dreams continued, only the voices got louder and scarier with time. She would curl up in a ball under the covers at the foot of the bed and hope they would not find her when she slept. She had always been afraid of the dark and now she was afraid to sleep. No matter how hard she hoped or prayed, they would always find her. When they started coming in her waking hours she stopped hiding and began to listen. It became a game to march around the family room to the cadence of the voices, during the long hours before everyone came home from school. In the dark end of the room by the yellow wardrobe, she could sit and hum along, oblivious to the world and staying out of any trouble that would bring...

She shook her head and pushed away the memory. She had no idea what time of night or morning it was but there was no traffic as she crossed the main highway through town. Approaching a cluster of two-story office buildings, she headed toward the one with lights on in the front windows. The front door was locked but amazingly, the side door was open. Looking over her shoulder every few seconds she slowly opened the door and crept into the hallway. The building should be locked unless there was someone there, so she listened carefully as she walked the hall looking for a restroom.

Hearing a noise down the hall, she ran toward the stairs by the door she had just come in. She tiptoed as quickly as she could up the stairs and gratefully found the bathroom right across from the top of the stairs. Pushing backward through the door, she was relieved to find paper towels on the wall instead of those stupid blow dryers. Grabbing a wad of towels she turned to the sink and a towel stuck to her bloodied hand, turned on the water.

The inner sleeve on her left arm was already stuck to the raw skin and she prepared to yank up the sleeve to wash, and then decided against it. The hot water almost burned over her frozen hands but she gritted her teeth and rubbed her hands together trying to wash the blood away. As she scrubbed, her hands began to slowly warm and for a moment, her incessant shivering got worse. God, how could she be so cold?

She started scratching with her nails at the places where the blood had caked. She tried to get each finger clean before she moved further up her hands. Not wanting to leave a mess, she avoided reaching for the soap until the water in the drain ran clear. She stood, scrubbing her wrists and as far as she could under the sleeve without pulling the cloth from the open scratches.

When she was finished, she grabbed another wad of towels to dry her hands and to wipe the counter clean. As she was drying off the side of the sink she caught her reflection in the mirror and realized she needed to wash her face and some of her hair too.

God, you're so ugly.

Just the one sentence, then it stopped. The warmth of the water and being indoors was starting to reach her and as her body stopped its trembling, she found herself almost weak with exhaustion. Instead of trying to be as precise as she had been with her hands, she simply rinsed her bangs and wiped as much as she could off her forehead. She tried to arrange the bangs to cover the bruised place without looking in the mirror and having to hear it again.

Oh, great, now she had to go pee. Somebody would find her if she didn't hurry. She relieved herself then snuck out of the building as she had come in, wondering at the silence that made even her breathing seem loud. Had they left her alone? Looking across the street at the school between the Methodist church and the hospital, she started walking down Route 234 toward the edge of town.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Reminders

6/19/2002

watching a really good movie but is triggering the hell out of us. too many damn hospital reminders. the 'you stink' guy is the male equivalent of roommate who tried to strangle me in the state hospital in fairfax does anyone else beside me and marisa remember it?

it was the first night there and we were on the locked unit for a couple of days and our roommate was a bitch who was 5 inches taller and at least 3 times my size. she smelled like old desitin and sweat. her clothes were dirty and her hair all knotty and tangled and she jumped in my face after i got back from the shower. she yelled at me that i stunk and told me to go take a shower. i told her i just got out and she told me to again. i stunk and needed to go take a shower. i kept telling her no and she kept saying the same thing. "you stink!" so finally i told her she was the one who stank and that's when she screamed she was gonna kill me. she was standing by the door, i tried to run past her, and she grabbed me right outside the door and pinned me against the wall then put her hands around my throat.

i think i screamed maybe but some people came and dragged her off and put her in the seclusion room.

the seclusion room there was different from any other i’d seen. it really did have padding on the walls and a linoleum floor with a drain in the middle.

i asked before she attacked me for them to put me in another room because the smell was so bad and she'd already been nasty. she chewed me out when i was unpacking and cussed at me and threatened me and when i told the nurses they wouldn't do anything.

i guess it worked out cuz after she got out of seclusion they put her in a room by herself and i was only on H ward for 2 nights.

*sigh* i’m done for now. and after all this the damn movie is still freaking me out

reese

(Untitled)

6/19/2002

i just sit down to write when charlie walks in. we go, like 2-4 days getting all kinds of things done then usually on a therapy day we just kinda crash. well after 2 straight days on the garage and 2 vanloads of stuff taken out we haven't done shit today but sit and read or sit at the computer. so the house looks like shit. our room looks worse than the kids’ right now and the living room is unreal. feel guilty enough as it is cuz we can't ever get everything even close to done. it’s like trying to bail out a rowboat with an eyedropper. stop for a split second, you're sunk.

anyhow, charlie walks in and starts kinda making that 'i can't stand this' noise about the mess on the floor and stuff. well the closet is ripped apart trying to get it straightened out and the stuff from in there had to go somewhere right? maybe we do need to kinda have a list of what to do and stick to it since i don't think we think about the same stuff. so like, i’m trying to get the littles’ toys and all our stuff organized in here and marisa’s been pressured to do the garage cuz of the food delivery thing. stephanie keeps freaking about the kitchen. the kids are supposed to do that but they never do it the way she likes it so half the time she does it herself.

so now, i feel like shit. i mean total shit. can’t win for losing you know? can’t get 5 minutes break.

so no cutting. i DON'T CARE ANYMORE!!!!! it’s not a want or impulse or desire. it’s a damn NEED! What am i supposed to do? i swear if i just cut i could relax some and get something done so people are't so stressed or whatever.

reese

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The Lighter Side

6/18/2002


-When we go to the movies, we get 10 people in for the price of 1.
-Amelia finding out she had boobies. "They feel like Koosh balls!"
-Wearing t-shirts that say things like 'I hear voices and they don't like you' and knowing they're TRUE.
-Staying in for the night has a whole different meaning.
-How do you decide what to put in a monogram?
-Your 4 year old tell you someone else needs to come out because he didn't like 'your' answer.
-How do you potty teach an insider?
-Sitting in the yard for an hour blowing bubbles and not feeling a bit guilty.
-Truly seeing the world thru the eyes of a child. "How come the star shaped bubble wand doesn't make star bubbles?"
-Changing your mind has a whole different meaning.
-Figuring out what to make for dinner requires a majority vote.
-Watching Charlie wrestle with the stuffed animals for room on the bed.
-Sleeping with glow bracelets on and not being embarrassed.
-We used to buy three different brands of cigarettes!

Me Again

6/17/2002

amelia had a cow yesterday when she was playing with john. first time she's talked about the abuse in forever. can’t believe she talked to charlie about it but i guess it's good cuz she knows that he's not gonna blame her or say the kinda shit mom used to say. she’s scared though cuz this stuff is getting triggered and she's scared as i am about having to actually talk about it. can’t we just share the feelings and stuff with marisa and kinda deal with it that way? why do we all have to go thru this hell together?

i know what lyn or dr. c would say. we have to go back to it together so marisa can process it and so we can 'break the silence' and talk about all the shit that happened and so we can all merge.

i’m so scared though. i feel like i’ll die if i have to do this. it doesn't matter if we were fucked and used when we were little. the stuff we did when marisa was a teen was stuff we chose to do. well, except for what josh did to us, but no matter what anyone says, we shoulda known what he'd do.

it’s not like i’ll do it or anything but i wish i could run away. just disappear somewhere, crumble, and not have to care if anyone missed us. we can't and i won't. the kids and charlie mean too much. it's just so bad that if i try to do anything i’ll wind up cutting and fucking everything up? at least i can sorta hide right now.

the only safe time is when charlie is home. he’s taking tomorrow off work too so he'll be here when we get done with lyn. so we'll probably just take a tranxene and go to bed. or just go ahead and freak, i dunno.
none of this makes sense, but oh well.

reese

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

made it thru another day

6/18/2002



ever notice how when you're late somewhere you always get behind the q-tip head who's afraid to go over 35?
reese was going to talk to L and show her the poem, but first we left late, then had to run back home to get the poem (and stephanie's writings) so we start an hour long drive 20 minutes late. slow freakin jerks doing 45 in 55 and tourists doing 35 on the same road trying ot look for the plantations. you can only pass so many ppl before you realize there's no point.
then it gets better. we get stuck on the stupid bridge. takes the friggin drawbridge 15 minutes just to start moving! i am so sick of these old bridges and the ungodly amount of time it's taking to build the bigger ones.
so, almost 40 minutes late for a 75 minute appt.
sitting on the bridge reese was asking if there were enough tissues in the van to clean up with if she cut while we waited. then she decided to burn, but we talked her out of it. for now anyway...
but in the middle of this stepahnie is working up a full head of steam and cussing a blue streak. it's like reese just can't catch a break. no matter what she does or tries to do it either blows up in her face or like that little 14yo shitforbrains who trashed her the other day, she just get shit on when she's the last one to deserve it. there's a lady on one of the SI groups we're on who's DID too and stephanie is convinced that when she gets defensive and we've pissed her off, she intentionally addresses her posts to reese. reese has never been anything but nice. i've told her to get her head out of her ass, and marisa has hinted that she's hiding in her SI as a way to avoid dealing with the real stuff that caused her DID in the first place. so, does she, who KNOWS the importance of it, address me, the host, or the specific alter who's words pissed her off? no, she rips reese all the shit and then lies her ass off about it all the while screaming how she's the victim.
anyway, we make it to the appt and manage to avoid SI in the process and stephanie talked to L for the first time in months and vented about how pissed she is over reese getting ragged on.
the cool thing tho is that this was the first session in i don't know how long that we didn't need to crawl in bed and nap when we got home. being able to vent out loud and be validated for what we believe and how we handle things made a difference.

oh, and stephanie, who doesn't give a rat's ass what anybody thinks about anything she does, actually asked for an honest opinion about the first chapter, and even admitted to not knowing how to handle wanting it to a favorable review. :) miss invunerable finally let her guard down a bit. hehehehe she's going to rip me an new ass (so to speak) for saying that, but hey, it's true! and a little goofy revenge would lighten things up a bit.

shit... okay, the sleeping meds are kicking in and we can barely keep our eyes open.

on the upside, L thinks the writing is awesome and was seriously encouraging about finding an editor to help get it all together. it's not going to be coming out in chronological order, but it'll be put together right, but just from the way she talked... and from stuff other ppl have said, i guess we're, i don't know... unique? definitely different from anyone else they've treated. not in the DID itself, but i guess in how we see it and look at life maybe. guess i'll have to ask. the book will be different from any other about DID too, but we're not ready to explain why.

marisa and stephanie (who snuck in her somewhere)

found the steri-strips - 6/17/2002



thought D had played with them all. walmart didn't have them last nite. hid them when i organized the first aid stuff. thought it would make me feel better to have them but maybe not having them was my excuse for not cutting. i can't take it anymore.

the shit is hitting the fan.

amelia had a cow yesterday when she was playing with J. first time she's talked about the abuse in forever. can't believe she talked to C about it but i guess it's good cuz she knows that he's not gonna blame her or say the kinda shit mom used to say. she's scared tho cuz this stuff is getting triggered and she's scared as i am about having to actually talk about it. can't we just share the feelings and stuff with marisa and kinda deal with it that way? why do we all have to go thru this hell together?

i know what L or dr c wld say. we have to go back to it together so marisa can process it and so we can 'break the silence' and talk about all the shit that happened and so we can all merge.

god i'm so scared tho. i feel like i'll die if i have to do this. it doesn't matter if we were fucked and used when we were little. the stuff we did when marisa was a teen was stuff we chose to do. well, except for what josh did to us, but no matter what anyone says, we shoulda known what he'd do.

it's not like i'll do it or anything but god i wish i cld run away. just disappear somewhere and crumble and not have to care if anyone missed us. we can't and i won't. the kids and C mean too much. i really understand why marisa says he saved her life when he married her. i think we really would have died if he hadn't come along. and him and the kids. god, they really do love us. all of us as much as they can understand anyway.

i feel bad cuz K thinks i'm mad or something cuz i don't hang out with her anymore. how do i tell her that it's just so bad that if i try to hang out i'll wind up cutting and fucking everything up? least i can sorta hide right now.

the only safe time is when C is home. he's taking tomorrow off work too so he'll be here when we get done with L. so we'll prolly just take a tranxene and go to bed. or just go ahead and freak, i dunno.

none of this makes sense, but oh well.

reese

Monday, September 5, 2011

it'd be funny if it weren't so weird

6/15/2002



okay, so here i am on a saturday, with too much to do and too much going on inside. when i'd done all the housework my back could handle, and stephanie had done all the writing our emotions could handle, i figured the littles could do with some time out.

i know how much the kids adore the littles. R and J especially. everytime they see amelia they smother her in hugs and kisses. it's sweet, but she just wants to play. part of her function or purpose is to be the 'normal' little girl i never got to be.
R, i know, understands enough about multiplicity to know that i/we were hurt pretty badly as a child and that's one of the reasons for amelia being a separate part of mommy. i think that's part of the reason she's so overly attentive to her. still, C and i try to explain that they need to treat her like any other 6 year old. let's face it. she's a 6 year old in mommy's body. i guess it's just a little hard to pretend 'normal'.

J thinks she's the coolest playmate and his best friend. plus he's figured out that what mommy says no to, amelia might just say yes to. we've even had to do some limit setting because they were getting into trouble together. more than once this past week alone he's put his little hands on his hips and stomped a foot while demanding to "talk to 'melia" when he didn't get the answer he wanted from me.

there's more to write but the kiddles are in bed (mostly) and K is waiting for me so we can run to wally world and we can shop in relative peace. i'll add to this later...

marisa

damn headaches

6/15/2002



we're switching more these days. it's not bad because the older girls are finally doing some writing again, and the younger ones are getting some time to just be, you know? but the headaches. these are the worst. can't take the imitrex because the sunburn's still there. i wonder if any of the ppl prescribing this stuff for migraines knows about what happens if you take it with a sunburn. G*d! it took 3 hours for my back to stop feeling like it was in flames the other day. i can't imagine how bad it would be for someone who feels pain like a 'normal' person.

it's hard to function and focus when the switching headache is bad. i could try doing some trance work but i'd probably fall asleep. with all the kids home and c------ at work, napping isn't wise. besides, i only got half the kitchen mopped and there's about 10 loads of laundry still waiting to be washed.

i want to go back to the sidetracked home executive method, with the 3x5 cards, but can't focus long enough to get it put back together and redone. read the other day that adults with ADD have the same problems with organization and getting things accomplished. at least we're not alone in this. some days i feel like a crappy wife and mother because there just doesn't seem to be time or energy enough to keep up with everything.

reese, stephanie and i need to find a way to cooperate with the housework. reese is so meticulous, one room can take days and stephanie hates having the kids underfoot undoing everything as she works. maybe between the three of us we can divide up the work so that our strengths can pull together?

see l-- on monday then she's going out of town for 10 days. dr c will be here but he's not been answering his pages so if we run into a crisis, i'm not sure how we'll handle it.

the assignment from l-- is a bit of a concern. the timeline itself isn't too big a deal, tho we've always gotten stuck and triggered when we try to chronicle certain events. the big thing is that she wants both the bad and the good in hopes the good can ease the pain of the rest. well bad news l--. there's barely enough good to remember from most years to be worth the effort, and the other years are still a blank. don't know if i even want to remember them just yet. we're damn near over our head in what we KNOW happened.

don't want this diary to turn into repeated bitch and moan sessions but i have to admit that putting it here keeps it from leaking out on my loved ones. i've not been so easily overwhelmed the last few days, even with the stuff that's waiting to be dealt with in this head.

now, do we have enough caffine in the house to help this headache some???

marisa

Sunday, September 4, 2011

here's what you were looking for

6/15/2002



it was in the DSM group. a post answering a question asked a while back...
marisa
> What made you start to SI? and how did you get the 'idea' to do so -
> that is the idea to cut, or pick, or hit yourself etc?

that's a good question... we've been using SI for as long as any of us can remember so we're not sure how it first 'began'. as a little kid we'd bite or hair pull or hit as a way to stop crying. (crying for 'no reason' usually brought beatings so you'd have something to cry about) or as a form of self-punishment for when we felt worse than the beatings and berating could cover. around 12 tho, we started cutting. i think at the time, we were trying to get someone to recognize how bad we felt and how much we needed help. sort of a pseudo-suicidal thing. of course it didn't work but one nite after running from home we camped out on the roof of a building to hide from police. we were totally freaking and it was one of those nites when we could hear each other and KNEW but also knew noone would ever believe. there had been some head-banging against a brick wall before climbing to the roof and our hair was pretty matted with blood, but at that time head-banging was usually a reaction to the voices of everyone inside. reese picked up a piece of glass intending to see if
she could do any mortal damage. after several shots at a vein and realizing the glass wasn't sharp enough, we just started peeling skin off the left arm. that was the moment when it went from an attempt to get help to being the help. we sat there in the freezing cold mumbling the 'i'm a shit' mantra and just kept going until the glass was just too dull to do any more damage. the right hand was so cold and numb we almost couldn't put the glass down and the blood had more or less glued it to our skin. we had to scrape our hand across the tar paper on the roof to get the glass off.it was another year and a half before we stepped up from superficial cutting to needing the bloodloss as much as the cuts themselves.
sadly, that started because our scars in comparison to a girl we'd met in hospital were, to our mind, inadequate. somehow there was the thought that if we could cut like she did, leaving the huge red keloid scars, someone would see the seriousness of our situation and help. (duh) again, instead of bringing help it became the help and bloodletting became like a drug.we've been able to stop the cutting for even years at a time, but it
seems that in between there is always some other form of SI being used, so it's never really stopped.

take care,
marisa (who's never told about it this way and wonders if she should print it out for the t...)

Stephanie Again

6/14/2002



I don't get it. I'm still so pissed I can hardly see straight. Why the hell does Reese have to be the one to get shit on every time? She doesn't do anything to deserve people ragging on her. It doesn't matter if it's her or anyone else, she gets the shit.

Okay, God, since you are obviously the only one that can give me a good answer for this, then why? Why can't she get a fucking break? I know I'm an angry bitch. I expect people to jump hot and piss and moan at me, but why Reese? Why the hell don't I see it coming and do something bright like tell her to leave her entries private? I know she wants somebody 'out there' to care about her and if no one hears her how can they, but damn!

Maybe this thing was a bad idea. It's hard enough dealing with the ignorant people who claim to love us but won't accept us. It makes no sense to expect acceptance in this anonymous environment where you can be a prick then run and hide.

Oh well, this is life though isn't it? You live, you get screwed, you die. Wasn't it the drunken asshole boyfriend in '28 Days' who said life is all about minimizing the pain? He was on to something.

Okay, bitch and moan session over. At least Reese didn't have to read what that stupid little shit wrote. Thank God for small favors at least, right?

Stephanie of the Crew

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Stephanie

This entry was written in response to an anonymous comment left on Reese's first entry.s It suggested The Crew was damaging the children and had no business being a mother.

6/14/2002



Since it is obvious that people who have no fucking idea what they are talking about are reading this and making judgements, then I'll make an entry of my own.

Unless you know what it is like to be mutilated and molested before you are even big enough to walk, don't make judgements about how unbefuckinglievabley hard it is to dredge up those things and talk about them.

Unless you've been thrown across rooms and beaten black and blue so often you know nothing else, don't tell us to get over it.

Unless you have been actively taught to believe that everything you do is wrong, that your exisence is a mistake, and that anything that goes wrong in the family is your fault, then don't tell us how to recover from that.

Unless you know what it is to heal from these things and have done so, unless you know what it is to live with many minds in one body and try to bring them together to heal, then back the fuck off and put your time into growing up yourself.

To those who have not posted notes to us passing judgement on what kind of person or parent we must be, then ignore this. Those who have shown their small mindedness in viscious notes to a wounded soul, know who they are.

Stephanie of the Crew

Amelia

6/14/2002



thare makin the bad girl cry. shel tell secrits and get us in trubl. im a good girl an i dont do bad things.

Friday, September 2, 2011

can't go there

6/13/2002



oh man, i can't talk about this stuff. i know that's what's coming next. dr c will want ME to tell about MY feelings and memories about this stuff and i can't. god i just can't. jeez i've hardly talked to him at all in what, like 2 years? and when i do he's so damn sympathetic and all 'it's not your fault and you've done a lot to help' i'm so sick of hearing that. i haven't done shit. how have i helped if i cldn't stop it from hpning?
the blades are in the van. if i get out the slip n slide i can keep the kids busy and just take my shower and make it feel better. but with going to the beach and all, there's no good vein to hit that i can hide and CF will have a cow. besides, if i do it right then we'll be too anemic to do anything with the kids and between that and the house, we can hardly keep up anyway. i don't want to wind up having to get transfused again but what else am i supposed to do? sit in somebody's office and cry like a baby and tell them all the awful stuff that's hpnd? tell about all the stuff we did cuz there wasn't anything else we cld do? talk about the ppl in their profession who fucked us worse than anyone else? talk about wanting to die more than anything? it's not like it's an option now and all talking about it will do is make me not care who gets hurt if i do.

thoughts and emotions
suspended in time
as water cascades
pouring from my face
all along my flesh
washing away the filth of my existence
the blade
so shiny and new
quickly and cleanly
releasing the pain
a river of warmth
in cascades from my arm
swirling in red and pink streams
around and around the drain
washing away the filth of my existence
sinking to the floor
as relief settles in
and the fear and anguish
the rage and despair
subside for the moment
washing away the filth of my existence

reese

Another Long Friggin' Day

6/12/2002



beginning to dread mondays and wednesdays. it's the right thing dragging up all this old crap and talking about stuff we've NEVER talked about before. but GOD does it have to leave us so utterly f*cked up for the rest of the day?
charie called from upstairs earlier and didn't realize i was just below him. scared the crap out of me because he yelled so loud. so we go into panic mode and it pissed him off which of course just made it worse. so littles are crying, reese wants to cut, can't go for a cigarette because we'll wind up burning and all because we shit bricks over a loud voice. i mean, charlie apologized for getting mad. he knows it's a trigger but he got caught off guard just like i did. besides, it's got to be frustrating as hell feeling like you have to walk on eggshells around us because you never know when we might get scared over something tiny. he knows someone inside is scared of him but we don't know who, but even understanding as well as he does, i think it still hurts him. he's so gentle and to be feared makes him feel like his dad, which i won't even get into. reese, i know, wants to write since she's pretty much quit talking. i miss her input and fun btw... anyway, i'll scoot and give her space.

marisa
of the Crew

Thursday, September 1, 2011

A Pint Of Yellow Paint

6/10/2002



just the perfect end to a perfectly stressful day... a pint of yellow interior paint spilled on the floor of the girls' bedroom as they *finally* begin cleaning it at 10:00 at night. bad enough to feel like the mother from hell for refusing to take a day at the beach if they refuse to do their chores. when did expecting to not trip over the ankle deep trash and clothes in a kids room become mean? i don't care if it's spotless and pristine. i just don't want 6 months worth of soda cans and candy wrappers littering a bedroom! on top of that a huge mess that is really my fault because when we were painting the pooh characters we didn't take the paint out when we were done. for crying out loud, I know better!

it doesn't help that my inside kids are crying foul because now *they* can't go to the beach either. i'm getting nailed with how unfair this is, inside and out! it's a no-brainer why we've let the kids get away with so much for so long. it's just plain HARD to keep the limits firm. it's HARD to explain to the littles why i make the choices i do as a parent. they don't understand why they can't have daily playtime because the 3D children tear up the house when mommy's not there. they know that if they get my littles out they can run the house til i'm back.
i love them so much and i feel like the crappiest mom for even complaining, but parenting ain't a walk in the park all the time. raising 5 kids is a hard enough job without also busting my @ss trying to sort thru my hellish past and put all the pieces back together.

speaking of which... sessions with l-- and dr. c have turned into long episodes of panic again. i know it's because of what we're dealing with and talking about but i hate being afraid to go to t. i hate not knowing who will be triggered or wondering if we'll stay safe when we get home.

when i made the decision to postpone the beach trip... it was as close to locking myself in the shower and cutting as i've been since january. that's about the worst part of all this right now. can't cut, for too many reasons to bother with but it's there every friggin minute. trying not to lose control and let out insiders we don't know because we've already seen that that usually winds up being dangerous to our health. the kids have all done so incredibly well dealing with my switching... i don't want to take a chance of someone coming out who would scare them or say something mean or just be bizarre. we put the days of kids finding me huddled in a closet, hiding and mumbling, behind us. they don't need to see that anymore. it's not fair or right for them to have to be affected by my multiplicity. something caused by the creulty and abuse of others shouldn't have to filter down to them. isn't that what breaking the cycle of abuse is about? i say 'no more. it stops here'. so why does my fight for health have to be something they see?

heckuva first entry... oh well. ranting is over. at least it's out of my system.

marisa of the Crew

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Spring 1999

 Reese

I just wanted to help. I really thought if I tried talking to the doctor he'd understand better. Instead of trying to shut us up with Risperdal he'd maybe get that we're not trying to fuck up her life. Not all of us. That's what Pastor R and Pat and Charlie think anyway. I'm pretty sure just  being fucks up her life but I'm scared to disappear. The drugs make us feel, I don't know, not disconnected but less. It's like feeling like I'm nothing but a wisp of fog and the drugs might burn us into nothingness. And they're making her sick.

It was kinda pointless, trying to talk to this guy. I should know better. Everytime I try to do something good it gets screwed up. I'm sorry if I just made it worse.
It's not like there's a doctor out there who even gets it. I tried explaining the cutting too but I swear it's like I scared him. All he wanted to talk about was hospitals and groups and other crap that never helped before. He's afraid I'm going to kill her. I'm not the one who wants to do that. he doesn't know much about it but I was stupid to think if I talked to him maybe he'd try to learn instead of just trying to get rid of us. He's probably just going to give her more drugs now.
I tried to help her and it's probably just going to make things worse. I mean I was scared shitless but he looked like he was afraid I might jump up and stab him or something.
I should've known and now it's probably going to be worse. Everything I try gets screwed up. I don't know why I try.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

1984

You see a paper clip on the floor. You take a quick look around to see if Staff are watching then drop the book in your hands and pick up the paper clip and hide it under the book. It's not much but you're getting desperate in this place. Someone tried to run away before you came here and so everyone is on "Sharps Restriction". You're making do until they allow people to use the make-up and other dangerous objects they keep locked away. You came prepared this time with blades hidden in useful places. Next time you'll find a way to slip them into book bindings instead of only the items they restrict.

It's been a couple of days. Your right hand is broken and no one has bothered to look at it. You know they've noticed because they make snide comments but it won't get treated if that means acknowledging what they say is attention seeking. They don't realize you only use punching the wall when something more private is too hard to find. For awhile you chewed the inside of your mouth to hamburger but when it made it hard for her to speak you stopped so they wouldn't figure it out. You're surprised they don't know since they look in your mouth every time you take the stupid pills they give twice a day.

It was easier before you got sent to the hospital. No one paid enough attention to know how much you can do. Clothes hide so much. It's a good thing you had only used the arms in the weeks before you came here or they might have figured out your secret during the strip search. Open wounds on your stomach and legs would have given you away.

They were so angry when they locked you in the Quiet Room and you came back out without most of the skin on your arm. That was a triumph because they think they can stop you. You don't care they don't believe the stories about things happening that aren't remembered. She doesn't know about you and you don't plan to tell her.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Winter 1999

Is it gonna thunder?
She hates thunder.
She's in the Lady's house. They let Her take a nap when the Big People left.
It sounds like it's raining.
She peeks open her eyes just a little. She's supposed to be napping. She doesn't want to get in trouble for not sleeping. She knows how to pretend and be real still.

There's a window by the bed. It looks sunny outside. It's not raining but she hears rain.
She looks around the room with her eyes only open a little in case someone's looking.
There's no rain.
Where's the noise coming from?
She looks around the room. There's a lamp by the other window on a table. It's got beads in it and they're all floaty and making noise on the glass like rain.
It's pretty.
She peeks at the door. No one is there.
She sneaks over to look at the lamp.
She looks over her shoulder but no one is there so she touches the lamp.
It's so pretty.
The Lady comes but she's good and doesn't hide.
She thinks she might be in trouble.
The Lady talks to her. Her name is Misspat. She's the one who sang with her when all those Big People were being scary.
The Lady Misspat asks if she wants to color. She nods. She's not sure if it's okay to talk.
She doesn't want to get in trouble.
But she really wants to color.
She likes to make her own pictures. She doesn't know how to stay inside the lines and Her friends laugh at her.
When she's drawing with the crayons The Lady Misspat asks her questions. She doesn't want to get in trouble but The Lady Misspat is nice and so she answers.
She tells about the dots she's drawing.
She holds up all the fingers on her hand to show how old she is.
And she tells about the other Big Ones who are mean. They don't like her and she never gets to play anymore. The Wall was big and scary and it was dark for a long time and she is scared of the dark. She's scared of thunder too but it's not raining. Does The Lady Misspat know her light sounds like rain?
She sits on the floor and she colors and she talks but then her tummy starts to hurt.
She doesn't tell The Lady Misspat her tummy hurts.
She wasn't supposed to talk about the Big Ones and The Wall and the Other Ones. She's gonna be in trouble.
So she goes away again.

***

Another time, Her tries to talk to her. She can't see where Her is but she says "It's okay. You're safe."
Safe is when the Brothers are at school and not laughing at her and when the Mother is taking her nap and when the Dad is at work and she can play with her toys and no one yells at her.
Her says she's all grown up and has a Husband and Kids and the Other Family is far away.
She's afraid to talk to Her. Grown Ups don't like to hear kids talking. She tells Her she's not supposed to talk to her or else she'll get in trouble. It makes her tummy hurt.
Her says her tummy hurts too but it's okay to talk to her.
"It's okay to talk to me. I promise I won't hurt you."
Her isn't the one who's gonna get mad.
Her's voice isn't mean.
"Is your name Roo?"
Her knows her name.
She nods her head and says "Uh huh."
"Hi Roo. I'm Marisa. Maybe we can be friends."
Roo thinks that's good. She wants a friend.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

February 1999, pt 5

I've played the tape for Charlie. I didn't tell him I've been playing it over and over since I got home. That's what she sounds like. The Teenager. The one who can cry... the one who thinks dying would be easier.

They talked to her. Pat and Pastor R said she mostly stayed curled up in a corner of the couch, crying. They said she was scared. Shit. That makes two of us.

She identified as me... but I'm me. There can't be two of us for real. Not for real My head is spinning.

I go outside for a cigarette. I can't breathe and I know it's stupid but smoking helps. I sit outside the garage in my hiding corner and light up.

What would happen if I tried talking to them like I did when I was little? Pastor R suggested I give it a shot.

"Um, I don't know what to call you but I'm Marisa. I'm really scared right now. The stuff I read says you're around because you helped me not go crazy from the abuse when I was little. I guess in a way you've helped but I didn't ask for this and I'm scared as hell of you.

Silence.

I feel like an idiot.

I lean back against the garage door and take a long drag on my cigarette.

"If you have to call me something, call me Reese."

My head slams against the door jamb. No. I did not just hear that. I did not just hear an exasperated sigh.

"Look. I don't know what to do, okay? The Wall is gone and things are so different and... I don't want this either, okay? Do you remember Dominion? I do. I didn't ask for this either and I don't want to be here either and... it's like I don't have a choice, okay?.

Tears prickle behind my closed eyes. I'm shaking my head. Please don't let this be real. Please.

"Okay... Reese. Um... Do I have to talk out loud or can you hear my thoughts?"
"You have to talk."
"Why?"
"I don't know. It's just the way it works. And look, don't ask me anymore questions, okay? I don't know and if I did I couldn't tell you. I'm gonna pay for this anyway."

I want to ask why and who and what but the cigarette has burned down to the filter and my fingers. I drop the butt and stare at the ground. I still don't know what to believe. How many are there? Who is making her pay? Reese? Who used to call me that? I was a teenager. I remember that much.

Oh God. This really is real.


Friday, April 8, 2011

February 1999, pt 4

Written February 1999, this is the first time The Wall (Later known as Control and finally Levia) communicated with anyone. She wrote this after showing up at Pat's house and grilling her, trying to decide out if stepping out of the way would be of more benefit than continuing to hold the others back. That conversation with Pat is the only time she ever spoke with anyone outside of  The Crew and, I think, Charlie. Whatever she did in "my world'"she did in silence.
The "others" she refers to were, we believe, spiritual rather than mental beings.


I find myself in what seems to be an odd situation. Never before have I questioned my role or responsibility. This has changed and I find myself asking "Who am I?" I suppose I have been aware of my existence always but that existence was defined by function only. I am not of flesh and blood. I am without spirit or emotion. I am a creation of her mind. I am a barrier intended to separate her world from another creation of her mind. In being that barrier I have protected her but now it seems that may not be true.
I protect her from the children she wishes to forget. Children who, like me, are not flesh and blood but emotion and memory. I keep them from her at her command because they prevent her from living the life she wants to live. Yet, if I understand correctly, the only way for her to live that life is if I cease to be the barrier.
Until the departure of Death, things were as the were. WIthout thought or question I did as I was there to do. Even as the others and then the children were recognized, I did as I was there to do. Even as the taunts and threats of the others caused chaos for her and for the children, I did as I was there to do. I prevented, at times with great difficulty and limited success, her life being disrupted by what is kept hidden in the children. Until the departure of Death, I saw only what I was supposed to see and knew only that which she wished me to know. With some regret, I know that has now changed.
Never before have I come forward to her world without circumstances requiring it. It was my duty to protect that drew me to speak with Pat, but it was an act of my own will which made it happen. My own will. If I can choose to come forward as I desire, can I also choose not to? Can I choose, of my own will, to no longer be the barrier I was created to be? In doing so, will I have abdicated my responsibility? Has my role changed that in order to protect her I must now allow the children their freedom to speak? If so, how did it change?
Why did it change?

Thursday, April 7, 2011

February 1999, pt 3

Rocking
Rocking
Rocking

This can't be real.
I've looked it up online. It's called D.I.D. now. Dissociative Identity Disorder. Why change it? Multiple Personalities at least tells you what it is without a medical dictionary.
But I don't think I fit all the criteria... and there are so many websites about it.
And then there are the False Memory Syndrome people. They say it's all a lie.
This can't be happening.
It can't be real.

But what about the Mirror Girl? I remember talking to her. I know I couldn't have been much more than 2... I was still in diapers. I remember walking back and forth in the upstairs hallway, holding the round crib mirror and talking to my reflection. I knew it was reflection because my game was watching the ceiling while walking back and forth. Not being able to see where I put my feet made my stomach do flips. I was being Brave and Adventurous. Especially when I passed the stairway.

But the Girl. I talked to her and she talked back. When Mom made me cry, I'd talk to her.

I remember other things around then but... I don't think about those.

What about the dots? I felt stupid telling Pastor R and Pat and now Dr. P about the dots.

It was a dream. A bunch of black dots that talked to me. I'm sure it came from some Sesame Street sketch but I had the dream for years, even after I started school. They would talk to me in my sleep.

And then later... after Tommy started taking me into the woods... they talked to me outside my dreams. Playing in my room, I'd hear them. First a babble and then I could hear them like a crowd all saying different things. "No." "Stop that." "Stop it." "Bad girl." Over and over and over. They spoke in a harmonic cadence and I would play or walk and sometimes rock to the rhythm of the voices. Somehow I knew, even then, not to tell.

But then I'd already learned about not telling.
And I kept learning.

I remember running away and telling people my name was Stephanie... and when I was Stephanie I wasn't afraid... and I was always afraid.

Waking up and not remembering the day before. But I never told anyone. Stein made sure no one would believe me.

When Charlie and I had our first real fight and I pushed him enough to make him yell... he found me in the spare room curled up in the pile of teddy bears and said I couldn't talk.

And
All
Those
Other
Times

Please God. Don't let this be real.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

February 1999 cont.

I hand the photocopied pages to Charlie and wait, my right knee jiggling up and down, keeping time with my pounding heart.

He's taking forever to read it. His face is inscrutable.

Finally he looks up at me. "Does this mean we can talk about it now?"

My heart stops. "What do you mean? You think they're right?"

He half-smiles. "I mean I've known this since the first year. I knew what I was getting into when we got married. So now it has a name. I didn't leave you before and I'm not leaving now. Does this mean we can stop pretending and admit it's real?

My hands start to flap and my breathing quickens. I sink from the arm of the couch to the corner seat. Charlie gets up from the computer chair and seats himself next to me, taking my hand.

"It's okay. We've been through so much already. We'll get through this. Think about it. We know what it is. That means we can fight it."

"You believe me then? You don't think it's bullshit?"

"Baby, I've talked to them. I've seen them since we first got married. I know Stephanie and Roo and the one who cuts..." He wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. I should feel safer. I should feel relief. All I feel is terror.

"I thought they were demons." It would have been easier if they were. This isn't something we can tell to go away. It's in me and I hate them. They've ruined my life. Why is everyone so freaking happy and relieved about this?

The last thing I am is relieved. It's going to get worse. I know it.

February 1999

"You think I have this?"

I'm holding photocopies of a book Pat is reading. She was reading about deliverance ministry and this is one of the chapters.

MPD. They think I have multiple personalities. Haven't they been listening? This is a Borderline thing. I have to be screwing with them somehow. I know what happened in January. They talked to a little girl... but I'm not. I mean. No. I told them before, it's like that but it's not. I can remember too much stuff.

I know I told them about the hospital when I was pregnant with Becka. A girl there who was borderline too had said it was like parts of us stopped growing emotionally and were stuck at different ages. I react with the emotion of a little kid but... that just means I need to grow up and stop acting like a kid.

No.

I remember the lady who came to visit me with the director of the hospital program I was in. She said looking at me was like looking at a broken mirror still in it's frame... as if my soul had somehow been broken in pieces. When I'd tried to talk to the doctor, he pretty much blew me off because it was a faith thing. Morrow never did want to hear about my faith. He never got how that made it hard to talk to him.

I look at the pages in my hand. Pat looks concerned but almost excited. She really believes she's found the answer. Pastor too. Don't they get it?

Don't they GET it? I've been here before. I told them about Stein at Dominion who said not being able to remember tearing up my arms in the bathroom was bullshit. I spent days in a quiet room because I refused to admit it.

I told them about Larry. No more inner child bullshit.

They might think this is the answer now but in a few months, they're going to call me a liar just like everyone else.

Have they told Charlie? He's going to shit.

"Isn't there something kinda like, in between? You know, not... this but just mimics it?

They've been studying and wrestling with this since we got together for prayer again in January.

My stomach knots up. January. I barely remember anything. They say they talked to a little girl... and I have 3 really long cuts on my right arm. I can't believe that happened right in front of them.

I don't remember sticking a razor blade in my sock. I don't remember the little girl singing "Jesus loves me" and I really don't remember standing in front of a whole group of people and cutting my arm.

Maybe I just don't want to remember. Maybe I'm lying even to myself. This can't be real.

My right arm. I've never cut on the right.

What if they're right?

I tell them my mom teased me for reading Sybil. I tell them when I read The Exorcist she'd made a comment about me growling and spitting pea soup next. Don't they understand this is just something I read years ago and I'm trying to imitate the story? That's what I do. I'm a liar. Everyone knows it or eventually figures it out.

What if they're right?

Are they going to tell Charlie? Are they going to tell the doctor I started seeing in December?

Pastor R is going to call Charlie and talk to him. He's meeting my doctor for lunch next week.

They're standing there, looking so expectant. What if they're right?

They can't be.


Monday, April 4, 2011

April 1991

Larry looks serious.
I'm scared.
Something is wrong.

I sit in my chair in his office, the one closest to the door, and wait for him to speak. Already the urge to run is powerful. I want to run out the door and go home. But it's been like this for weeks.

I glance at Larry. He sits back, further back that usual. He crosses his leg over his knee. The body language barrier.

My heart does flips in my chest.

He speaks but his words seem jumbled. I realize the sudden rushing in my ears is making it hard to understand him, like he's talking to me under water. He says he's been talking to Dr. B, who oversees his internship.

"... Borderline Personality Disorder..."

Immediately, everything comes into crystal clear focus.

Dr. B says Borderlines are demanding and manipulative. He told Larry he needs to stop letting me control sessions and make him go over time. I am abusing Larry's time and playing games.

Oh my God. I tried to tell him. I told him what would happen. I shouldn't have told him about the teenager and the little girl. I shouldn't have let it happen. Oh, God. What now?

Last week, Larry leaned in closer and spoke kindly. I can see that is gone now and there is an edge to his voice. He doesn't say it but I know he feels used... and I've screwed up again.

I'm trapped in place by the shivering. It's so complete I've turned to stone. All I can see is my knees. The rest of the office is gone. Just my knees and Larry's accusing voice as he lays down the new rules.

"This inner child nonsense needs to stop. I will not talk to anyone but you from now on. You need to stay in your seat and control yourself during sessions."

***

I'm driving down I-40, heading back to Durham. I can't breathe. I'm going to wreck. Oh please, God. I'm pregnant. Don't let me hurt this baby. I want to swerve and hit the trees.

NO

Pull over carefully. Stop the car.

I'm going to die. This pain is going to kill me. I TRUSTED HIM!

Every time.
Every time I took a chance.
I trusted him.
He doesn't believe me.
I thought he would be different. He was different. He seemed to care when no other person I've tried to talk to has seemed to care.
Borderline.
I manipulate.
I just want attention.

I'm sobbing uncontrollably. The last time I cried like this was in the hospital back in January. For over a week, I cried non-stop. Even when I wasn't sobbing, the tears fell all the time. I couldn't stop it.
Until they told me to stop attention seeking.
I hid in my room to cry.
I sat alone to cry.
I stayed away from others so they wouldn't be upset by my distress.
But that's isolating yourself.
Just another way to seek attention.
I can't win.

A driver on the interstate slows and looks at me with concern. I wave him on and try to smile.

I have to stop this. I'm making a scene. I can't pull back onto the road. I'll never make it home. Oh God, I want to die!

Five months pregnant. This child will not be harmed. How she's stayed healthy so far, I don't know but I will not let her be hurt. I will not kill myself and murder this child. I will not cut. I will not hurt this child.

The cigarette lighter. Push in the knob. Wait. It pops out and I pick it up and look at the red hot circles of metal inside. Hot enough to light a cigarette.

Roll up my left sleeve. Hunch down in the seat. Place the lighter on my arm... high enough up to be hidden by my shirt sleeves.
Deep breath.
The tears stop.
Focused only on the lighter as I roll it on my skin.
Push in the knob.
Take it out.
Roll it on my skin.

Each time it gets easier to breathe. Each time, I can feel my heart relax a little more.

"No more."
I'm speaking aloud.
"No more."
I roll the lighter on my arm.
"No more."
I will never let it happen again.
"No more inner child nonsense."

I repeat the words, feeling a steely resolve build. I will lock it up. Shove it away so it can never happen again. I'll die before I think about pretending again.

No one will ever believe it is real.

I have to have made it all up. I've lied to Charlie. To every pastor we've gone to for help. Every doctor. Every hospital. Stein at Dominion called it for what it is. Bullshit.

No more bullshit.

No Stephanie.
No Roo.
No teenager trying to hurt herself.
It's all me and a lie.
I'm a lie.
No more.

I put the lighter back in place.

I'm calm now.

Charlie is going to be upset about the burn. I hope he understands. I had to do something that wouldn't hurt the baby. I had to find away to get home.

It is worth it.
They are gone now.
Charlie will never find me curled in a ball in the shower again.
Kristen will never find Mommy banging her head against the wall again.
No one will ever hear those eerie little voices I've known so long.
It's over now.
No more inner child bullshit.
I'll die before I let it happen again.






Saturday, April 2, 2011

December 2, 1998

*This was written Dec. 2, 2004. It was the first time I had written or talked about the day since is happened.*

I don't know what triggered it. Maybe it wasn't anything specific. It had been building for months. I wandered in and out of my days, shifting from mind shattering panic to near catatonic states. Somehow I still managed to get kids up and dressed, drive the girls to school then get them picked up and fed... but it was like an empty shell going through the motions. Between getting home from school with the girls and making dinner, I lay sprawled across my bed, awake but somehow unconscious... lost in listening to the noise in my head.

It could happen so fast... I'd go from just dragging my leaden body around to flapping my hands, nodding my head or using any number of other odd little movements which were the only things keeping me from taking on of Charlie's belts and hanging myself in the garage. I was taking the Xanax the internist prescribed. It took the edge off the panic but did nothing to quiet the noise.

I remember Daniel asking me to play cars with him that morning... I sat on the floor and burst into tears because I didn't know how to play. This had happened before. I couldn't even play with my four-year-old! What about John? Did he get any interaction from me at all? I know he did but I can't remember one moment of enjoying my own children during that time... You're a horrible mother. You're destroying your family. look at yourself. You're worthless and a failure. You can't even play Hot Wheels with your son. I'd never been so numb.

I had a burn on my arm the size of a plum... the result of several days using lit cigarettes to stave off the panic... but that was weeks ago and it was almost healed. The cuts on my ankles and calves were tiny but precise... not long enough for stitches but each deep enough to allow for a pint of relief. I remembered doing them but... it was so odd to watch myself act and have no power to stop it... and the gallery of hecklers and screaming voices just kept getting louder by the day.

The boys were napping. There was just enough time before they woke and it would be time to pick up the girls.

It wasn't my leg this time. I took off my sweater. i'm sorry. i can't do this anymore. i'm sorry. i've ruined everything.

Standing over the sink. Water running. When I hit the vein, causing a small geyser, the relief was overpowering. I just stood there and watched.... pouring out the pain.

Ringing in my ears. Sick to my stomach. I can't staunch the flow... I don't want to. I'm scared. I'm relieved. I'm scared. I'm determined.

I turned off the water and pulled my sweater back on... stuck a towel on my arm and found a phone. "Pat, I cut my arm. I can't stop the bleeding. I'm scared."

She was twenty minutes away. I dropped the towel, leaned over the counter with my arm in the sink and rested my forehead against the cool mirror. I needed to wash away the mess but couldn't turn on the water.  

Things are fading. I'm going to be sick. I can't stand up any longer. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. I scoot around the corner of the sink and sit on the toilet. Pat will be here soon. She'll help.

I can't breathe. I can't move. I don't remember anything. What's happened? I can't breathe!

I'm on the floor. I see a shape in the doorway. It's Pat. She's called an ambulance. She's pacing back and forth in my bedroom, praying.

"Oh God! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! This wasn't supposed to happen! I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry." She kneels at my side and brushes my hair from my face. She's crying. I can't breathe. I can't move. I'm scared. I'M SORRY!

WHERE ARE MY BOYS? They're with the next door neighbors. They're okay. Charlie's been called. The Pastor is on his way.

i'msoashamedi'msoashamedi'msoashamedi'msoashamed
ashamedashamedashamedashamed
shamedshamedshamedshamed
shameshameshamei'msosorry

The paramedics arrive. There's no room in the bathroom. They remove the shower doors so they can all have room. Oxygen. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean this. I'm so sorry."

They're so nice. They shouldn't be. I was stupid. How could I do this? They should be angry and condescending. They should be sarcastic and cruel. This can't be happening.

How could I let this happen?

***

I had to write this. I have to get it out. I don't talk about that day... not really talk about it. Never have... not since 2 days after it happened. I don't talk about the mess that Pastor R and Pat cleaned up by themselves so Charlie wouldn't have to deal with it. I don't talk about the lies we told the kids so they wouldn't have to know what really happened to Mommy. I don't talk about the humiliation of being wheeled out of the house on a stretcher, seeing neighbors staring at my blood soaked body... or the whispered gossip for weeks after. I don't talk about it. I don't talk about the ER nurse dismissing the paramedic's estimation of blood loss because if it had been that bad he'd have hooked up an IV en route... or how he tried to explain they'd not had time and he couldn't do it over bumpy roads... or passing out in the bathroom when they asked for a urine sample... or shitting myself while unconscious. I don't talk about what a very close call it was... and I don't talk about the shame... the paralyzing, choking shame... for all of it... that day and every day of the next 18 months. I don't talk about it.

Because I shouldn't feel ashamed, right? I shouldn't want to crawl in a hole for what I did to my family, my friends and myself, right? I should be able to look back, be grateful I'm alive and got help and move on, right? Because no one wants to hear or see such raw emotions... no one wants to feel uncomfortable in the face of such pain, right?

So I don't talk about it.