Monday, May 26, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Honest Thoughts Home
Oh, to find a place
Where honest thoughts can be spoken without judgement
(head bowed, slightly beaten these days)
Joined a group that helps others but continually shows photos of distressed children. Definitely thinking of leaving it, most specifically for that reason alone.
My autism, I've never understood how to work in a group. They don't get the autism thing. Confusion, frustration. To have to agree with those in charge.
Aspergers is a solo team sport.
Still physically feeling like crap. Unable to walk without great effort. Sleeping 15 hours a day, but it's not near enough. Constant exhaustion wears me down.
Went out with a friend this week. First time in months. Had a great time, but for the exhaustion repercussion. Body working on getting stronger, but I lag.
Hoping for peace. I've heard about it.
Therapy pretty intense these days.
Each subject matter a frustrated, emotional, sphere ready to burst. Powder keg like, in terms of intensity.
Sitting farther back from therapist these days. We, too volitale, need space, swinging arms and kicking feet.
That's it for now.
Where honest thoughts can be spoken without judgement
(head bowed, slightly beaten these days)
Joined a group that helps others but continually shows photos of distressed children. Definitely thinking of leaving it, most specifically for that reason alone.
My autism, I've never understood how to work in a group. They don't get the autism thing. Confusion, frustration. To have to agree with those in charge.
Aspergers is a solo team sport.
Still physically feeling like crap. Unable to walk without great effort. Sleeping 15 hours a day, but it's not near enough. Constant exhaustion wears me down.
Went out with a friend this week. First time in months. Had a great time, but for the exhaustion repercussion. Body working on getting stronger, but I lag.
Hoping for peace. I've heard about it.
Therapy pretty intense these days.
Each subject matter a frustrated, emotional, sphere ready to burst. Powder keg like, in terms of intensity.
Sitting farther back from therapist these days. We, too volitale, need space, swinging arms and kicking feet.
That's it for now.
Monday, May 5, 2014
The Whispering Watcher age 10
I have a person, an alternate personality, that I just met. She is 10 years old. Her job was to sit up, backed into a corner of whatever bed I was sleeping in, and watch for my dad. She stays awake all night, finds sleep to be a highly vulnerable, unprotected, outlandish thing. So her job was to alert me, to whisper in my ear and gently touch my shoulder, and tell me when my dad was approaching. She is hypervigilant, terribly scared and always on guard.
She talked to Therapist for the first time today. At one point telling Therapist, "I don't know you." To which Therapist replied, "I know you don't." Therapist is pretty good about spotting new people and switching.
I was wondering why I was sitting up against the wall unable to sleep last night. Now I know.
Not sure how to try and explain that we don't live in the parents house anymore and we are safe.
If you take away a persons job...they fear evaporation. Everyone has a very specific function, it's all they know how to do. The job, composes them.
It was nice to see her and hear her voice, see her mannerisms today. She's pretty cool. :)
She talked to Therapist for the first time today. At one point telling Therapist, "I don't know you." To which Therapist replied, "I know you don't." Therapist is pretty good about spotting new people and switching.
I was wondering why I was sitting up against the wall unable to sleep last night. Now I know.
Not sure how to try and explain that we don't live in the parents house anymore and we are safe.
If you take away a persons job...they fear evaporation. Everyone has a very specific function, it's all they know how to do. The job, composes them.
It was nice to see her and hear her voice, see her mannerisms today. She's pretty cool. :)
Friday, March 21, 2014
Without Title, Goals or Direction
Lol, yeah I'm a directionless wind. I'm clueless as to what I'm doing here other than observing. That's all. I see no purpose. No reason. Lackluster and obtuse.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
I'm an abused child in an adult body
My thoughts and feelings about who I am are directly related to which people are out. One minute, I'm a fairly competent, intelligent adult carrying on a semi-functional life. The next moment, I am a frightened child, beaten, bruised, bloody, raped, sad, helpless. It seems like all that I am, ever have been, maybe ever will be is this tortured child, unable to escape, to think for myself, unable to deprogram and release all their ugly, disturbing messages about how bad, awful, seductive, deserving of punishment and pain.
I open my hands, palm up, gazing at my past, present and future in this moment. I knew nothing outside of their mistreatment. Didn't attend school, go out to play, hang out with friends, talk to anyone, touch or hug anyone who wasn't actively hurting me. I was a nothing with bruises up and down my arms and between my legs. My body nothing but a broken tool wrapped around a twisted, trapped mind.
One by one, I must pick out and examine these outmoded, destructive thought patterns they entrained upon me. Now is a really good time to do this.
My body is good, clean and belongs Fully to me. It is not a punching bag, a receptacle for their dicks or their waste. My body is not for adult perverse pleasure. It is not an inanimate object that can be pushed, pulled, prodded and contorted into someone else plaything. It Belongs to Me.
My body is Not a dirty, filthy thing. That may be how they made me feel, but it is not who I am. I believed them. I believed mother and fathers incessant repetitions of how I was of no value, of how I was born to do their bidding. If they wanted me to stand naked, humiliated, embarrasses, while they shamed me, then I had no choice. I had no choice. I couldn't think for myself, didn't know how. What a strange foreign concept. That I had self-worth, thoughts and desires of my own.
I was a no body, a no thing to them. And they taught me, falsely, that everyone else saw me that way too. How do you wash it all away? The insults, degregation, the hatred and humiliation that reined down on my day after day after day? How might I cast off such thick callouses?
They taught me that I was unlovable. My body was not for warmth, caring or affection. It was for hitting, slapping, beating and penetrating. My body was not a user friendly place to be.
How I reviled it, as they did. How I hated my body for being able to hurt so, cause my great distress. It always seemed to hurt, be sick, ailing or in pain. I hated having such a sensitive body. I hated the nerve endings that gave me so much pain. I hated being sick with the strep throat, stomach aches, migraines, constipation, diarrhea, that were almost an every week thing.
I hated how I had no control over what my parents did to my body. I had no control. Didn't want it cause it was always hurting me. Never learned how to properly cared for myself. Didn't have anyone show me proper hygiene or respect or appropriate treatment. My body got sick but somehow it was my fault. It wasn't from the stress of beatings and molestations, no, my mother said I was sick all the time because I didn't wash enough or right. I blamed myself. It was all my fault for being such a sickly child.
No, see, the only reason I was constantly ill was because of the wretched things my parents were doing to me. The blame is not mine. I carried it for so long but the blame, the responsibility for me being so sick was because of mom and dad. The blame I hand back to its rightful owners. It wasn't my fault. Without proper nutrition, care and medical treatment, added with the beatings, rapes and molestation, No, I no longer carry this blame. The fault is mom and dads.
My body is not a bad, sick, perverted thing, No, my parents made me feel bad, sick and filthy because of adult choices they made.
It's time to release myself from these erroneously placed chains of blame and guilt. I did nothing wrong. My body never ever deserved to be treated so meanly.
I open my hands, palm up, gazing at my past, present and future in this moment. I knew nothing outside of their mistreatment. Didn't attend school, go out to play, hang out with friends, talk to anyone, touch or hug anyone who wasn't actively hurting me. I was a nothing with bruises up and down my arms and between my legs. My body nothing but a broken tool wrapped around a twisted, trapped mind.
One by one, I must pick out and examine these outmoded, destructive thought patterns they entrained upon me. Now is a really good time to do this.
My body is good, clean and belongs Fully to me. It is not a punching bag, a receptacle for their dicks or their waste. My body is not for adult perverse pleasure. It is not an inanimate object that can be pushed, pulled, prodded and contorted into someone else plaything. It Belongs to Me.
My body is Not a dirty, filthy thing. That may be how they made me feel, but it is not who I am. I believed them. I believed mother and fathers incessant repetitions of how I was of no value, of how I was born to do their bidding. If they wanted me to stand naked, humiliated, embarrasses, while they shamed me, then I had no choice. I had no choice. I couldn't think for myself, didn't know how. What a strange foreign concept. That I had self-worth, thoughts and desires of my own.
I was a no body, a no thing to them. And they taught me, falsely, that everyone else saw me that way too. How do you wash it all away? The insults, degregation, the hatred and humiliation that reined down on my day after day after day? How might I cast off such thick callouses?
They taught me that I was unlovable. My body was not for warmth, caring or affection. It was for hitting, slapping, beating and penetrating. My body was not a user friendly place to be.
How I reviled it, as they did. How I hated my body for being able to hurt so, cause my great distress. It always seemed to hurt, be sick, ailing or in pain. I hated having such a sensitive body. I hated the nerve endings that gave me so much pain. I hated being sick with the strep throat, stomach aches, migraines, constipation, diarrhea, that were almost an every week thing.
I hated how I had no control over what my parents did to my body. I had no control. Didn't want it cause it was always hurting me. Never learned how to properly cared for myself. Didn't have anyone show me proper hygiene or respect or appropriate treatment. My body got sick but somehow it was my fault. It wasn't from the stress of beatings and molestations, no, my mother said I was sick all the time because I didn't wash enough or right. I blamed myself. It was all my fault for being such a sickly child.
No, see, the only reason I was constantly ill was because of the wretched things my parents were doing to me. The blame is not mine. I carried it for so long but the blame, the responsibility for me being so sick was because of mom and dad. The blame I hand back to its rightful owners. It wasn't my fault. Without proper nutrition, care and medical treatment, added with the beatings, rapes and molestation, No, I no longer carry this blame. The fault is mom and dads.
My body is not a bad, sick, perverted thing, No, my parents made me feel bad, sick and filthy because of adult choices they made.
It's time to release myself from these erroneously placed chains of blame and guilt. I did nothing wrong. My body never ever deserved to be treated so meanly.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Living with MPD
I've been down sick for a few days, but my head is full of people, words and ideas. It would be easy to call me a low drama, quiet, introverted, recluse of a Multiple. I spend the majority of my time by myself, and thinking about things.
Therapy, psychotherapy, is really weird. You sit in a room with a stranger and talk about everyday and very disturbing, long-held secrets. It's like the therapist and I created a safe place, a base, whereby it's safe to talk about whatever we want. We don't get those highly annoying questions, "Who are you?", "What's your name?" and "Why are you doing that?" The less said by the therapist the better. I don't feel like I'm being interagated. I set the tone and pace. Therapy gives me something to focus on.
Flashbacks have been low this week. We've been working on one major memory, involving 3-4 people, for the past month or so. I think we made more progress.
Teenagers, us teens, okay, me the teen, isn't into this parenting, running a house crap. I miss the freedom of being single and able to do what I want when I want. I don't play well with others. Typical teen, let me do my own thing.
I talk about therapist A Lot, because she is the only person I/ we interact with. I have a partner. We used to be god friends. Now just two disinterested strangers sharing a house. Can't remember the last time I held hands or someone looked into my eyes. Weird.
It's always nice to have someone the people can interact with:) My favorite people are other multiples, autistics, philosophers, artists and poets. Deep thinkers are good. It's a lost art.
Lots more coconsciousness. It's weird to get to a place where you can forgive yourself, then some different inner people come along and your back to square one, trying to forgive yourself. I love logic. Logic doesn't work with MPD.
Being a "successful?" Multiple involves respecting each other. People are created to look after, help and care for each other. Sometimes if a little person is in distress, we see if a big person wants to be their buddy, protector, so they feel safe and secure.
We are at the point where we are working with the most hurt ones. The people that carry the pain, emotional and physical. Hmmm, funny, talk about a lot of talking from someone who just referred to herself as quiet. Seems I could go on and on.
I should go and get some rest. Feeling tired and weak still.
Therapy, psychotherapy, is really weird. You sit in a room with a stranger and talk about everyday and very disturbing, long-held secrets. It's like the therapist and I created a safe place, a base, whereby it's safe to talk about whatever we want. We don't get those highly annoying questions, "Who are you?", "What's your name?" and "Why are you doing that?" The less said by the therapist the better. I don't feel like I'm being interagated. I set the tone and pace. Therapy gives me something to focus on.
Flashbacks have been low this week. We've been working on one major memory, involving 3-4 people, for the past month or so. I think we made more progress.
Teenagers, us teens, okay, me the teen, isn't into this parenting, running a house crap. I miss the freedom of being single and able to do what I want when I want. I don't play well with others. Typical teen, let me do my own thing.
I talk about therapist A Lot, because she is the only person I/ we interact with. I have a partner. We used to be god friends. Now just two disinterested strangers sharing a house. Can't remember the last time I held hands or someone looked into my eyes. Weird.
It's always nice to have someone the people can interact with:) My favorite people are other multiples, autistics, philosophers, artists and poets. Deep thinkers are good. It's a lost art.
Lots more coconsciousness. It's weird to get to a place where you can forgive yourself, then some different inner people come along and your back to square one, trying to forgive yourself. I love logic. Logic doesn't work with MPD.
Being a "successful?" Multiple involves respecting each other. People are created to look after, help and care for each other. Sometimes if a little person is in distress, we see if a big person wants to be their buddy, protector, so they feel safe and secure.
We are at the point where we are working with the most hurt ones. The people that carry the pain, emotional and physical. Hmmm, funny, talk about a lot of talking from someone who just referred to herself as quiet. Seems I could go on and on.
I should go and get some rest. Feeling tired and weak still.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Why bother living?
So I'm fourteen and feel like I just walked out of a closet. This doesn't make much sense, life, that is. Seems 90% of each day is spent doing things I don't want to do. Taking care of kids, spouse, pets, house, chores, errands, did I mention kids? This isn't fun. It ain't livin. It's doing for every one else. How can you know who you are? What you like? Enjoy anything? Constantly at someone else's beck and call. I don't get this. Non sense.
We all live to die and then live and die and it's a never ending cycle. There is no winning here. Just a tolerating. A moment here, a moment there. I'm lost and disillusioned. Looking to experience the least amount of pain and discomfort and the quickest, least suffering death.
Death is something we all do, but we dare not talk about it, taboo.
Big secret, we each are born, live and die for our selves, our own soul. I'm not here for you, or that kid, this stranger, that family. I was born for me, to experience life. To make choices. To fall into traps. Hopefully to get stronger and experience something positive.
We get so attached to others, crazily so. People leave. Everyone moves on and dies. Find some grace to love and let go. Grief is the biggest pitfall, roadblock, we all face. Dying must be a pleasure. To be free of the pain, suffering, turmoil. Life is hard. I have experienced such depth of suffering and torture. Death must be heaven. Peace and Freedom at last. The never ending cycle of life, death, between life's, birth and all over again.
How is my soul, my spirit, my link from life to life? I need, I seek nourishment for my spirit. It can be found in nature, in the quiet, in the silence of a starry night.
We live to feel, to experience with our hands and our hearts.
Bodies, especially sensitive autistic bodies, require such astute, precise and time-consuming care. I'm mid-aged and have yet to figure out what heals and what hurts my body. Strange, rare ailments beleaguer. Medicines adjusted and dosed specifically, outside guidelines, my body has a mindset, rather a structure...still not right...my body requires exquisite fine tuning in subtle degrees. I'm very individualistic in what my body likes and does not like.
Still haven't figured it out yet. Maybe I never will. Seems with age, symptoms complicate.
I'm just not sure what to make of all this.
I'm not sure I'm liking life or does it even matter if I like it or not?
If this is a never ending roller coaster ride, can I get off and take the bus?
We all live to die and then live and die and it's a never ending cycle. There is no winning here. Just a tolerating. A moment here, a moment there. I'm lost and disillusioned. Looking to experience the least amount of pain and discomfort and the quickest, least suffering death.
Death is something we all do, but we dare not talk about it, taboo.
Big secret, we each are born, live and die for our selves, our own soul. I'm not here for you, or that kid, this stranger, that family. I was born for me, to experience life. To make choices. To fall into traps. Hopefully to get stronger and experience something positive.
We get so attached to others, crazily so. People leave. Everyone moves on and dies. Find some grace to love and let go. Grief is the biggest pitfall, roadblock, we all face. Dying must be a pleasure. To be free of the pain, suffering, turmoil. Life is hard. I have experienced such depth of suffering and torture. Death must be heaven. Peace and Freedom at last. The never ending cycle of life, death, between life's, birth and all over again.
How is my soul, my spirit, my link from life to life? I need, I seek nourishment for my spirit. It can be found in nature, in the quiet, in the silence of a starry night.
We live to feel, to experience with our hands and our hearts.
Bodies, especially sensitive autistic bodies, require such astute, precise and time-consuming care. I'm mid-aged and have yet to figure out what heals and what hurts my body. Strange, rare ailments beleaguer. Medicines adjusted and dosed specifically, outside guidelines, my body has a mindset, rather a structure...still not right...my body requires exquisite fine tuning in subtle degrees. I'm very individualistic in what my body likes and does not like.
Still haven't figured it out yet. Maybe I never will. Seems with age, symptoms complicate.
I'm just not sure what to make of all this.
I'm not sure I'm liking life or does it even matter if I like it or not?
If this is a never ending roller coaster ride, can I get off and take the bus?
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