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?
Why we eat
We eat because:
It looked good on tv
It reminds us of what mother used to cook
I smell food
I see someone else eating
It's in the fridge calling my name
It's a leftover and it gets tossed tomorrow
I only had a small supper
Dessert after every meal
I'm lonely
I feel lost, small, insignificant
I don't feel good
I'm tired but don't want to go to bed
What if I get hungry in a little bit
I'm scared
I feel and I don't wanna
She's eating, I should too
I don't know what I feel
Rarely do we eat when hungry
It looked good on tv
It reminds us of what mother used to cook
I smell food
I see someone else eating
It's in the fridge calling my name
It's a leftover and it gets tossed tomorrow
I only had a small supper
Dessert after every meal
I'm lonely
I feel lost, small, insignificant
I don't feel good
I'm tired but don't want to go to bed
What if I get hungry in a little bit
I'm scared
I feel and I don't wanna
She's eating, I should too
I don't know what I feel
Rarely do we eat when hungry
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Living with Agoraphobia
Agoraphobia is an anxiety/ panic disorder in which a person has attacks of intense fear and anxiety. There is also a fear of being in places where it is hard to escape, new/ unfamiliar places, or where help might not be available. Sufferers might avoid being alone, leaving home, or any situation where you could feel trapped, embarrassed or helpless.
People with agoraphobia often have a hard time feeling safe in any public place, especially where crowds gather. Other situations that may cause concern, wide-open spaces, as well as uncontrollable social situations such as shopping malls, airports and on bridges.
Approximately 3.2 million or about 2.2% of adults in the US between the ages of 18 and 54 suffer from agoraphobia.
In response to a traumatic event (yeah, that would be called the majority of my childhood), anxiety may interrupt the formation of memories and disrupt the learning process, resulting in dissociation (another of the few things I do extremely well).
I've probably had agoraphobia since my twenties. I noticed it most acutely around thirty. I wasn't able to go for a walk around the blck without panic. Therapy helped, just general psychotherapy where I talked about my childhood abuse and daily issues that bothered me. I starting gaining self-confidence, using anti-anxiety meds before going out and overall agoraphobia became a non-issue.
Earlier this week, I got startled and flew into a panic at the grocery store. I've been doing little but sleep on the couch for the past three days. Autistic shutdown? Or just plain too scared to face life? I'm not sure.
I only go out for obligations and appointments I can't cancel. I've cancelled most everything for the next two weeks. I am tired. I feel exhausted and unable to cope. I'm not sure when I'll be able to face the store again.
In my ead, I'm already making lists of plans to battle through grocery shopping: make a list according to location, keep my back to the wall, don't get caught between people, if there are too many in the aisle skip it and come back or get at a later date. I'm thinking if I do ten items or less, I can go through the speedy checkout lane, which is where my panic attack happened. More trips, but faster in and out.
It's scary to even think about, quite honestly. I'm still recovering.
Thanks for reading. I always welcome comments.
People with agoraphobia often have a hard time feeling safe in any public place, especially where crowds gather. Other situations that may cause concern, wide-open spaces, as well as uncontrollable social situations such as shopping malls, airports and on bridges.
Approximately 3.2 million or about 2.2% of adults in the US between the ages of 18 and 54 suffer from agoraphobia.
In response to a traumatic event (yeah, that would be called the majority of my childhood), anxiety may interrupt the formation of memories and disrupt the learning process, resulting in dissociation (another of the few things I do extremely well).
I've probably had agoraphobia since my twenties. I noticed it most acutely around thirty. I wasn't able to go for a walk around the blck without panic. Therapy helped, just general psychotherapy where I talked about my childhood abuse and daily issues that bothered me. I starting gaining self-confidence, using anti-anxiety meds before going out and overall agoraphobia became a non-issue.
Earlier this week, I got startled and flew into a panic at the grocery store. I've been doing little but sleep on the couch for the past three days. Autistic shutdown? Or just plain too scared to face life? I'm not sure.
I only go out for obligations and appointments I can't cancel. I've cancelled most everything for the next two weeks. I am tired. I feel exhausted and unable to cope. I'm not sure when I'll be able to face the store again.
In my ead, I'm already making lists of plans to battle through grocery shopping: make a list according to location, keep my back to the wall, don't get caught between people, if there are too many in the aisle skip it and come back or get at a later date. I'm thinking if I do ten items or less, I can go through the speedy checkout lane, which is where my panic attack happened. More trips, but faster in and out.
It's scary to even think about, quite honestly. I'm still recovering.
Thanks for reading. I always welcome comments.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
I'm Lonely
I can't remember the last time someone looked onto my face and into my eyes. I'm talking about friendship, or just someone that cares, not the clerk at the grocery store or gas station cashier. I live with someone who spends his away from work time, doing nothing but playing video games.
I'm alone yet I live with others.
I miss a friend, someone to talk to, share ideas, exchange compliments and advice. Someone I can be myself with. Someone who would look at me, see me and hear me. There is no one to text or call on the phone. No one to visit or drop in on. No one to hang with or go places with.
I used to blame myself, autism, self absorbency and all. But I was born this way and I know I do my best. I've had friends before, briefly, for a few months. I think then, that they realize it's to much work to be my friend, too demanding and unpredictable. I get shutdowns fairly regularly, whole days where I can barely move to meet my own needs, much less meet someone for coffee.
The outside world seems more unpredictable and chaotic, of late. Each venture out I risk getting overwhelmed and shutdown for even longer. Can't seem to do anything productive. Feel pretty useless. Trying to be okay with myself. With being alone. With having no one that sees me.
Pathetic thing..I go to see a therapist just so I can hold her hand, so someone knows I'm alive, so I feel I'm alive.
Have to learn to be a friend to myself, the friendless, the lost, bewildered and alone.
I'm alone yet I live with others.
I miss a friend, someone to talk to, share ideas, exchange compliments and advice. Someone I can be myself with. Someone who would look at me, see me and hear me. There is no one to text or call on the phone. No one to visit or drop in on. No one to hang with or go places with.
I used to blame myself, autism, self absorbency and all. But I was born this way and I know I do my best. I've had friends before, briefly, for a few months. I think then, that they realize it's to much work to be my friend, too demanding and unpredictable. I get shutdowns fairly regularly, whole days where I can barely move to meet my own needs, much less meet someone for coffee.
The outside world seems more unpredictable and chaotic, of late. Each venture out I risk getting overwhelmed and shutdown for even longer. Can't seem to do anything productive. Feel pretty useless. Trying to be okay with myself. With being alone. With having no one that sees me.
Pathetic thing..I go to see a therapist just so I can hold her hand, so someone knows I'm alive, so I feel I'm alive.
Have to learn to be a friend to myself, the friendless, the lost, bewildered and alone.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Battle Fatigue, Autistic, Aspergers Shutdown
The last three weeks have been a dull blur. One overwhelming incident after another has subdued my body into fatigue and sleep laden shutdown. I spend most of my time sleeping, allowing my body to rest and destress. There is little resembling functionality or normalcy. I feel useless. And that it's not safe to go outside even if I had the physical strength. I've accomplished nothing. It feels like unexpected, chaotic events out side of myself have complete control over me.
Feel useless. The unpredictability of knowing who or what will push me over the edge into the helplessness of extreme shutdown fatigue. I should be discouraged, but I don't really have the strength to care. I need sleep, sleep, sleep, calm and predictability. I've cancelled all unnecessary appointments, meetings and outings.
The slumbering Aspie retreats.
Feel useless. The unpredictability of knowing who or what will push me over the edge into the helplessness of extreme shutdown fatigue. I should be discouraged, but I don't really have the strength to care. I need sleep, sleep, sleep, calm and predictability. I've cancelled all unnecessary appointments, meetings and outings.
The slumbering Aspie retreats.
Monday, March 3, 2014
What is life?
But a sad sorry mixture, a broken mold of what others want and expect of us and trying to find and save ourselves. I hide because the world is too much. I want to hide under blankets, cower in the corner, lock the doors and pull the shade. I want the world to go away. I want the demands of motherhood, spouse and conscientious citizen to go away. I want to let go of these years of pent up tears and fears.
I want someone to hold me when I'm scared. I've always wanted to experience that, just once. Allowing myself to be innocent, vulnerable and be cared for and comforted. It's still a bizarre thought, that someone would care enough to do that, without hurting me. Without being repulsed by the ugliness of my past that lives within my skin.
I want to be alone but I want to be silently held and deeply loved. I want to not leave this world without getting my most basic infantile of long sought needs met.
Life is about trying to live your best through this fiery hell. Without third degree burns. Feeling the least amount of hurt possible. Getting away with the fewest bruises and broken bones. How do you reach out, when your hands are tied? How do you beg for a hug without words!
I'm a good person, I was a beautiful child, who got pretty beat up along the way. Then I made bad choices with substance abuse...and it's hurting me, my addiction that has served me so well as to dull and numb the pain of parents sexual and emotional hurt. Now my addiction makes every day a challenge, it robs me. Hurts me and scares me every day. Somehow I can't stop and would seem to accept a slow painful early death. Just finishing what my parents started...the road of unlovability. I think we all follow the path laid out by parents, consciously, unconsciously, in rebellion and in spite.
Can't figure out how to change the heart expectation of unlovable to love. How to empty out all that old crap and accept, care for me. Seems the insurmountable, unwinable game. Rolling dice, shooting craps, dark alleys and dimwitted lights.
I can equate my existence with living in a dark, trash filled alley, devoid of hope and light. When no one wants you, when the only reason a parent wants you is for rape, to clean the house and smack upon...it's really hard to find any value or self worth, for like, the rest of your life.
Life is about getting beat up. Learning to live with yourself. Experiencing the least amount of pain.
Sometimes I wish if just close my eyes and rock in someone who loves me arms.
Ah, the dreams of a child haunt the days of the adult
I want someone to hold me when I'm scared. I've always wanted to experience that, just once. Allowing myself to be innocent, vulnerable and be cared for and comforted. It's still a bizarre thought, that someone would care enough to do that, without hurting me. Without being repulsed by the ugliness of my past that lives within my skin.
I want to be alone but I want to be silently held and deeply loved. I want to not leave this world without getting my most basic infantile of long sought needs met.
Life is about trying to live your best through this fiery hell. Without third degree burns. Feeling the least amount of hurt possible. Getting away with the fewest bruises and broken bones. How do you reach out, when your hands are tied? How do you beg for a hug without words!
I'm a good person, I was a beautiful child, who got pretty beat up along the way. Then I made bad choices with substance abuse...and it's hurting me, my addiction that has served me so well as to dull and numb the pain of parents sexual and emotional hurt. Now my addiction makes every day a challenge, it robs me. Hurts me and scares me every day. Somehow I can't stop and would seem to accept a slow painful early death. Just finishing what my parents started...the road of unlovability. I think we all follow the path laid out by parents, consciously, unconsciously, in rebellion and in spite.
Can't figure out how to change the heart expectation of unlovable to love. How to empty out all that old crap and accept, care for me. Seems the insurmountable, unwinable game. Rolling dice, shooting craps, dark alleys and dimwitted lights.
I can equate my existence with living in a dark, trash filled alley, devoid of hope and light. When no one wants you, when the only reason a parent wants you is for rape, to clean the house and smack upon...it's really hard to find any value or self worth, for like, the rest of your life.
Life is about getting beat up. Learning to live with yourself. Experiencing the least amount of pain.
Sometimes I wish if just close my eyes and rock in someone who loves me arms.
Ah, the dreams of a child haunt the days of the adult
Saturday, March 1, 2014
My dad, my step dad is having sex with me
If your father is having sex with you, if he molests you, touches your genitals, private parts with his hand, mouth or his penis, He is committing a crime. It's called incest and/ or childhood sexual abuse. No father or stepfather has a right to molest his daughter or son.
What do you do? Tell someone, a trusted friend, teacher, relative. Call the Police! They are trained to get you away from the danger. People will believe You!
If your dad was like mine, he has made threats to keep you from telling. Don't believe him. You have a right to be safe. You are not to blame in Any Way!
You can get help immediately!
Child molesters go to jail! They belong in prison. Fathers who have sex with their children are criminals, are to blame and deserve to be punished.
You can call 911, or child protective services in your state. You can tell your teacher and principal, because they are required by law to report the criminal. Tell your doctor! They can help you.
I didn't know it when I was a kid and being raped or forced to give my dad hand jobs and blow jobs, but there is help.
I don't want you to suffer anymore. I don't want you to feel ashamed, embarrassed or like you are bad. Report anyone who touches your privates. Report anyone who is hurting you. People want to help you!!!! It's okay to speak up! You are not to blame! You do not deserve to be hurt anymore!
What do you do? Tell someone, a trusted friend, teacher, relative. Call the Police! They are trained to get you away from the danger. People will believe You!
If your dad was like mine, he has made threats to keep you from telling. Don't believe him. You have a right to be safe. You are not to blame in Any Way!
You can get help immediately!
Child molesters go to jail! They belong in prison. Fathers who have sex with their children are criminals, are to blame and deserve to be punished.
You can call 911, or child protective services in your state. You can tell your teacher and principal, because they are required by law to report the criminal. Tell your doctor! They can help you.
I didn't know it when I was a kid and being raped or forced to give my dad hand jobs and blow jobs, but there is help.
I don't want you to suffer anymore. I don't want you to feel ashamed, embarrassed or like you are bad. Report anyone who touches your privates. Report anyone who is hurting you. People want to help you!!!! It's okay to speak up! You are not to blame! You do not deserve to be hurt anymore!
What is a blog?
A blog is a nonjudgmental, neutral friend that is always there for you. It's the online version of a diary. Having a blog allows me to escape judgement, spill the family secrets freely and acknowledge, spell out, write and own my truth. My blog is a trusted friend, something I don't have in the real world. It is my voice, my silent cries vocalized and heard.
Writing is healing. Sharing my true feelings and inner thoughts, freedom.
Writing is healing. Sharing my true feelings and inner thoughts, freedom.
Finding Time to be Alone
Precious is the night, when all are asleep and I'm allowed to enjoy my own company. I thrive in solitude. My soul renews and refreshes. I can think for myself or not think if I want. Family is nice but not without constraints and demands. It's hard to be yourself playing mommy and spouse.
I'd like to go for a ride, head to a shopping center where I can drift anonymously and escape this drudgery. Winter clamps down like a vice, ruining the hope if escaping the family domicile and daily tasks of rote.
So I lay in wait, anticipating the freedom of night, when it's only me and my thoughts.
Just getting through this day.
I'd like to go for a ride, head to a shopping center where I can drift anonymously and escape this drudgery. Winter clamps down like a vice, ruining the hope if escaping the family domicile and daily tasks of rote.
So I lay in wait, anticipating the freedom of night, when it's only me and my thoughts.
Just getting through this day.
I don't want to talk about it
Therapy is upcoming, in a day or two. Part of me wants to talk furiously of all my trials, tribulations and accomplishments.
The other part of me just wants to sit silently, saying nary a word.
I feel all talked out. I've used my allotted number of words last week, don't want to say no more.
I slept 12 hours last night. It doesn't happen to often, family obligations and all. Woke up still tired. The antics and interactions, the insights and the fury of the week typically catch up with me on the weekend. I want nothing but a quiet stupor in which to recover.
The snow was pretty last night, in the moonlight, gently falling making soft sounds. Today, the winter feels oppressive, stifling, stuck in the house again, roads impassable, temperatures daunting.
Spring and sunshine cannot come soon enough.
Friday, February 28, 2014
I don't want to sleep
I want to lay here in the peace, untroubled.
I want the past to be nothing more than faded memories that no longer haunt, disturb and intrude.
I want to talk to God, know he is there, here for me.
I often wonder if God is observer, participant or manipulator.
Rare are such moments as these, awake and unemcumbered, nothing on my mind that is broke and needs mending.
The lazy river flows sweet and gentle.
Goodnight sweet princess.
May the clouds of dreams fog the past and release a weary body into pleasant slumber.
I want the past to be nothing more than faded memories that no longer haunt, disturb and intrude.
I want to talk to God, know he is there, here for me.
I often wonder if God is observer, participant or manipulator.
Rare are such moments as these, awake and unemcumbered, nothing on my mind that is broke and needs mending.
The lazy river flows sweet and gentle.
Goodnight sweet princess.
May the clouds of dreams fog the past and release a weary body into pleasant slumber.
5 Weeks without a Switch, MPD, DID, Incest Surviving
It's been five weeks now, since I've switched personalities. As they say in The Matrix, I am "The One", the original birth personality. I have a hard time remembering what age I was when certain trauma, events happened, because I have been around all these 40+ years. The others, the alters, my people have had very specific ages, and often purposes.
I think there are still a few people around...but it's been really weird seeing therapist all by myself and consistently five times. Before a couple months ago, I, personally had only "seen" and interacted with therapist half a dozen times for ten minutes or less. It's almost like all the others had to check her out, make sure she is safe (after all, isn't that why I created all the others) and they had to have time to tell their tales. No way could I have been able to handle that much trauma and emotion. I'm at a place now, whereby I can deal with all the recent remembrances and flashbacks. They have been intense and highly disturbing, no doubt, but I'm muddling through.
My dad was my chief molester, perpetrator. He sexually abused me from a few months of age through my teens, on average a few times a week. When I was very young and a toddler, he would rub his penis against my mouth or between my legs till he ejaculated. As I got older, kindergarten to fourth grade, he started playing around with anal sex. He even had my brother and I preform sex acts in front of him as he masturbated. He'd reward us with candy or treats. It was such a sick game. I remember wanting to do what dad said so I could get something to eat. I grew up on poverty and hunger, as well.
The revelation about the forced incest with my brother, only surfaced in the past couple of weeks. I still feel shame and blame, like I did before I accepted my dads incest and how it wasn't my fault and I was forced and coerced into it. Now this, with my brother, still feels heavy, devastating...don't think I can ever see him or get together with him again. I've talked with him once on the phone last week. My head swam with nauseating memories of the sec games. I don't want to deal. He needs to leave me alone. I need to ignore and avoid him until I feel okay...if that ever happens.
My childhood was all a lie. All the love I had for my brother...seems wrong, negated, over. I was trained to have child to child, sister/ brother sex. Don't know when I'll feel okay about that or when I'll hear his name and not wince.
My brother, he doesn't remember Anything. He is gay, an undiagnosed multiple and an alcoholic. When he remembers, which seems impending, his world is going to rock, shake and cave. I know. I've been there. I was MPD diagnosed twenty years ago and have been in therapy ever since. I've learned to handle and deal with flashbacks and being multiple. I've cut off and estranged myself from all disbelieving, unhealthy family members. I have a very calm, good life. My brother? It's going to be a really rough road. I wish him the best. Right now, can't think about him without remembering, flashing back.
I just wanted to write. Writing is one of the few things that help me heal.
I think there are still a few people around...but it's been really weird seeing therapist all by myself and consistently five times. Before a couple months ago, I, personally had only "seen" and interacted with therapist half a dozen times for ten minutes or less. It's almost like all the others had to check her out, make sure she is safe (after all, isn't that why I created all the others) and they had to have time to tell their tales. No way could I have been able to handle that much trauma and emotion. I'm at a place now, whereby I can deal with all the recent remembrances and flashbacks. They have been intense and highly disturbing, no doubt, but I'm muddling through.
My dad was my chief molester, perpetrator. He sexually abused me from a few months of age through my teens, on average a few times a week. When I was very young and a toddler, he would rub his penis against my mouth or between my legs till he ejaculated. As I got older, kindergarten to fourth grade, he started playing around with anal sex. He even had my brother and I preform sex acts in front of him as he masturbated. He'd reward us with candy or treats. It was such a sick game. I remember wanting to do what dad said so I could get something to eat. I grew up on poverty and hunger, as well.
The revelation about the forced incest with my brother, only surfaced in the past couple of weeks. I still feel shame and blame, like I did before I accepted my dads incest and how it wasn't my fault and I was forced and coerced into it. Now this, with my brother, still feels heavy, devastating...don't think I can ever see him or get together with him again. I've talked with him once on the phone last week. My head swam with nauseating memories of the sec games. I don't want to deal. He needs to leave me alone. I need to ignore and avoid him until I feel okay...if that ever happens.
My childhood was all a lie. All the love I had for my brother...seems wrong, negated, over. I was trained to have child to child, sister/ brother sex. Don't know when I'll feel okay about that or when I'll hear his name and not wince.
My brother, he doesn't remember Anything. He is gay, an undiagnosed multiple and an alcoholic. When he remembers, which seems impending, his world is going to rock, shake and cave. I know. I've been there. I was MPD diagnosed twenty years ago and have been in therapy ever since. I've learned to handle and deal with flashbacks and being multiple. I've cut off and estranged myself from all disbelieving, unhealthy family members. I have a very calm, good life. My brother? It's going to be a really rough road. I wish him the best. Right now, can't think about him without remembering, flashing back.
I just wanted to write. Writing is one of the few things that help me heal.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Famous Hermits, Having Aspergers
Having Aspergers, I tend to go off on tangents, pursuing obscure subjects that temporarily fascinate me, hence, I blog.
I tend to think of hermits as those people who physically distance themselves from others. You know, the man who moves to the tiny mountain cabin, the woman who sets up a tent and lives in the woods.
Here are some famous hermits I tracked down online:
Noah John Rondeau (1883-1967) the Hermit of the Adirondack Mountains
He lived in the Cold River area from 1929. A naturalist, amateur astronomer, violinist, woodsman. He built several huts, tepees and wigwams. Kept a journal all encoded. It took 25 years for someone to crack his cipher.
*
Willard Kitchener MacDonald (1916-2004) the Hermit of Gully Lake
After jumping a troop train to avoid service in WWll, lived in a secluded hut in Canada for 60 years. Pacifist. A film was made about his life in 2007, directed by Amy Goldberg, "Willard: The Hermit of Gully Lake."
*
James Lucas (1813-1874) Hermit of Hertfordshire (United Kingdom)
Celebrated English Victorian eccentric. Well-educated, studied medicine. Became a complete recluse after his mothers death. Lived solely in the kitchen of his mansion, sleeping on a bed of ashes and soot. Lived on bread, cheese, eggs, red herrings and gin.
*
Valerio Ricetti (1898-1952) New South Wales Hermit
Italian-Australian who lived mainly in a cave in the Griffith area for 23 years. Working only at night, so he would not be seen, he turned his cave into a fairytale-like utopia, complete with kitchen, chapel, landscaping, pathways, stone walls and stairs, cisterns for water. Stonemason, artisan.
*
Arthur Leslie Darwin (1879-1977) the Hermit of Posseum Key Florida
Lived on seven acres in the Everglades. Hunter, carpenter. Built a one-room concrete block house. Grew fruits and vegetables and raised rabbits.
*
Despina Achladioti (1890-1982) The Lady of Ro
Greek patriot born on Kastellorizo. With husband and mother moved to the deserted island of Ro. After a few years, both husband and mother passed away. Lived off goats, chickens, and a vegetable garden. Every day she would fly a Greek flag over the island. Despite not having veteran status, she was buried with full military honors.
*
Robert Roy Ozmer (1899-1969) Hermit of Pelican Key Florida
A newspaperman, actor, sailor, artisan. Moved to the island to cure his alcoholism.
*
Manfred Gnädinger (1940-2002) "Man" German hermit and sculptor
Lived in Camelle, in Galicia, Spain. A simple and natural life, living on the beach building sand sculptures and gardening. Tall with a long beard and dressed only in a loincloth. Built a small hut to live in. Man created colorful sculptures out of stones, driftwood, other elements washed up by the sea.
*
Richard Proennke (1916-2003) Twin Lakes Hermit Alaska
Richard Louis "Dick", lived in a simple log cabin in the high mountains. Made valuable recordings of meteorological and natural data. Former US Navy carpenter. Diesel mechanic, high intelligence, adaptability, strong work ethic. He made a film of his solitary life, "Alone in the Wilderness" that aired on PBS. Book "One Man's Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey" was based on his journals. Won the National Outdoor Book Award in 1999.
That satisfies my curiosity.
I tend to think of hermits as those people who physically distance themselves from others. You know, the man who moves to the tiny mountain cabin, the woman who sets up a tent and lives in the woods.
Here are some famous hermits I tracked down online:
Noah John Rondeau (1883-1967) the Hermit of the Adirondack Mountains
He lived in the Cold River area from 1929. A naturalist, amateur astronomer, violinist, woodsman. He built several huts, tepees and wigwams. Kept a journal all encoded. It took 25 years for someone to crack his cipher.
*
Willard Kitchener MacDonald (1916-2004) the Hermit of Gully Lake
After jumping a troop train to avoid service in WWll, lived in a secluded hut in Canada for 60 years. Pacifist. A film was made about his life in 2007, directed by Amy Goldberg, "Willard: The Hermit of Gully Lake."
*
James Lucas (1813-1874) Hermit of Hertfordshire (United Kingdom)
Celebrated English Victorian eccentric. Well-educated, studied medicine. Became a complete recluse after his mothers death. Lived solely in the kitchen of his mansion, sleeping on a bed of ashes and soot. Lived on bread, cheese, eggs, red herrings and gin.
*
Valerio Ricetti (1898-1952) New South Wales Hermit
Italian-Australian who lived mainly in a cave in the Griffith area for 23 years. Working only at night, so he would not be seen, he turned his cave into a fairytale-like utopia, complete with kitchen, chapel, landscaping, pathways, stone walls and stairs, cisterns for water. Stonemason, artisan.
*
Arthur Leslie Darwin (1879-1977) the Hermit of Posseum Key Florida
Lived on seven acres in the Everglades. Hunter, carpenter. Built a one-room concrete block house. Grew fruits and vegetables and raised rabbits.
*
Despina Achladioti (1890-1982) The Lady of Ro
Greek patriot born on Kastellorizo. With husband and mother moved to the deserted island of Ro. After a few years, both husband and mother passed away. Lived off goats, chickens, and a vegetable garden. Every day she would fly a Greek flag over the island. Despite not having veteran status, she was buried with full military honors.
*
Robert Roy Ozmer (1899-1969) Hermit of Pelican Key Florida
A newspaperman, actor, sailor, artisan. Moved to the island to cure his alcoholism.
*
Manfred Gnädinger (1940-2002) "Man" German hermit and sculptor
Lived in Camelle, in Galicia, Spain. A simple and natural life, living on the beach building sand sculptures and gardening. Tall with a long beard and dressed only in a loincloth. Built a small hut to live in. Man created colorful sculptures out of stones, driftwood, other elements washed up by the sea.
*
Richard Proennke (1916-2003) Twin Lakes Hermit Alaska
Richard Louis "Dick", lived in a simple log cabin in the high mountains. Made valuable recordings of meteorological and natural data. Former US Navy carpenter. Diesel mechanic, high intelligence, adaptability, strong work ethic. He made a film of his solitary life, "Alone in the Wilderness" that aired on PBS. Book "One Man's Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey" was based on his journals. Won the National Outdoor Book Award in 1999.
That satisfies my curiosity.
Monday, February 24, 2014
The Definition of a Hermit
Hermit: comes from the Latin erēmīta, from Greek erēmitēs, "of the desert"
First Usage 1130-1225 Middle English
I have always considered myself a hermit. I avoid social situations whenever possible. My autism means that everyday sights, sounds, activities can be overwhelming. My PTSD causes me to be hyper-vigilant, especially in regards to my personal space, people behind me and yelling or angry voices.
***
Hermit: a person who lives, to some degree, in seclusion from society.
***
As a child, I wanted to be a monk, till I figured out monkhood was only for boys and the highly religious.
I just wanted to find some place quiet. Voices, interaction causes stress and feelings of discomfort. I wanted to find a safe, quiet, peaceful place where no one would bother, disturb or hurt me.
I only leave the house when I have to, for groceries, appointments, errands, that's it.
Summer and Spring, I enjoy going for long walks in the woods, fields and vacant cemeteries.
There is no negativity, no crime, in being a hermit. It's just who I am.
New Start
It was time to start something new. I continue to lead an eclectic life. I am an artist, poet, philosopher, multiple with dissociative identity disorder, autistic, abuse survivor, courageous and quasi-intelligent, kind, compassionate, introspective and a recluse.
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