You have questions? I have answers.

You have questions? I have answers.

I am going to write up some sort of introductory piece about all of this for the folks who don’t know what I am talking about. But, until then, I would like to open up a question and answers forum/thread/whatever. If you have any questions, any at all, and not even about DID necessarily, because I am wicked smart about a lot of things, please, ask away.

Love you people.

I am broken.

I am broken.

I am broken. I am seriously broken. Into small parts. Into small parts of my own self. That are basically hiding from me in the depths of my giant brain. And maybe in my heart. Or, like, in my spleen. I mean, honestly, who would look for a person part inside a spleen? I am broken.

There are many ways I have discovered recently in which I am broken. Well, I overspoke. There is one glaring way I have discovered recently in which I am broken. Sexually. I can absolutely have sex and love sex and enjoy the fuck out of sex with you if I like you a lot. I can have same sex if I love you, too. But if I strive to create an atmosphere of intimacy, real intimacy, and of loving, pretty sex, I cannot do it. When I try that, I have unspeakably horrid flashbacks and I thusly panic. And, really, I do cry when I am having like and regular love sex. I cry every time. That’s not normal, either.

To reiterate, if I am sexing you up because I like you or regular love you, pretty fair chances it will go well. And there will be an excess. But if I come to you vulnerably, with intimacy on the line, ready to open up to you in ways I heretofore have never experienced, there is going to be some trouble. I have on hand and in spleen many versions of me for whom sex didn’t go well and was disgustingly inappropriately timed. Those parts do not want me to be vulnerable. Or something. I am not really sure why they send me the flashbacks. I imagine it is to protect me, keep me safe. But why when I am trying to be safe and ensconced with intimate, pretty sex? And with the regular like love sex, I merely get a small crying spell?

I really don’t know. I really didn’t know I don’t know. I am broken.2507599454_c254f1ca22_z

These days, my head is so full of thoughts from other mes. It’s full of knowing my perceptions are skewed and correcting them manually. It’s full of knowing I am the wrong me in a certain situation and trying to act as if.

I am growing tired of trying to make my today mes into whatever would be the right me for the other people. The other people who know need to put some effort into this, too. Not just with lip service, but knowing there will absolutely be days where I will be different. And to look out for those days. And try a little harder to go out of your own comfort zones to meet whichever me I am. Sadly, we don’t all respond to people in the same way. How could we? We have all led very different parts of my life.

I am not for everyone. I am broken. It is going to take a lot of time and a fuck of a lot of effort to put this sucker back together again. This is a long haul project. I am not for everyone. I need people who can think on their feet. Who can improvise. Who aren’t going to turn on me and accuse me of not liking them and try to bail on me. I need consistency. I need people who aren’t afraid to know they are broken, too. I need support. Not negative things pointed out to me. I need help. I am broken, goddammit.

Huh?

Huh?

I woke confused again. Not the kind of confused like when you are napping at a strange-for-you time and you wake up and can’t of what day it is and what time it is and maybe you should be doing thirteen things already and you are late and where is your child? But the kind where it takes me a minute to place myself. More existential. Like where am I in the way that a drunk wakes with dread to the new day wondering what social or sexual blunders she has committed and whether or not it really matters at all. Like trying to remember what you did when you don’t remember what you did. Because there are more than one you. And, really, it could be days later than you remember, not just hours. 3276999982_a6b5ea60ae_z

It’s a very familiar feeling for me. I watched and listened to myself handle the confusion. After a beat, my mind swept it under a rug and seamlessly went on as if nothing present was completely crazy. An instant spin. Nothing to see fear, folks. Move along. But in that instant of covering up the weirdness, about a million things went down in my brain. I processed the situation with such speed and nimbleness, highly proficient in dealing with that which makes no sense to the naked brain. As if I was born doing this, to do this. To go on as if everything were normal and lovely and where is my cereal.

I tried to process my processing as it lighted by, leaving a hum in the space behind my forehead. The part that my furrow controls. From what I gathered, I didn’t know who I was for a flash. I assimilated the view from my apartment sofa and finessed that I was indeed at my apartment on the sofa, and I recalled that my mother had been here last night for laundry and extensive smart phone lessons. But it wasn’t like a recalling of things that happened to me. It was like I had memorized a fake alibi.

3276999982_a6b5ea60ae_z2And I believe that when this happens, there is a certain amount of anxiety that arrives in my chest. It’s as if I am covering for a murder or something and it really is an alibi. And I struggle to make sense of what perhaps I had intended to do on this day. Was I going to mow? Was I supposed to be buying Rob foods? Do I have any money at all in my bank account? What was this day to be? And is it too late for it to be that? How can I still fit in all of the things even though the time is later than it should be? And I bargain with time and rearrange it, like we do when the alarm goes off and we hit snooze. And then we do all of the nine-minute math.

I believe I have been able to do this DID thing for so long without ever getting caught because I am crazy smart. Smart about my crazy. My brain is highly complex. Like, seriously, dudes. In fact, I was never caught for being molested, either. of course, my mother was an easy fool. She saw it and didn’t see it. She can process things in a way that makes them never have happened. It’s a lesser form of this brain sport. But, of course, she never has had any confidence in her intellectual capabilities. She hides what she can and forgets the rest. I think it’s sloppy. Were it not for her dedication to unknowing, she would have failed long ago and would have to admit that things happened.

I don’t like this anxiety. It isn’t clean. Points will be deducted for style.

The dream.

The dream.

Last last night, early this morning in fact, I didn’t feel in any way capable of communicating with the mes. But I tried, anyway. I asked that if they had anything to share to please feel free, now and always. I said some kind, soothy things. And after my mom popped downstairs and said something she didn’t need to say as the obvious result she was after was to upset me, I asked the mes if they know why that stuff gets to me sometimes when I could easily ignore her and not give her that power.

Flash forward to my needing nap. Rob had had an enormous meltdown before school, a kind of meltdown where I was worried he would break the dishwasher or something, because scratch.mit.edu was down and stayed down for a long long time, and that is his one go-to website before school. It didn’t help that we went to the Is It Down Now? website to check if it was down or if it was on our end, because Rob kept refreshing that age, and he became more and more upset. So we were a little late for school. I told him we would wait until it was back up because how he feels in more important than being on time for school. Once I got home from taking him in, I was already beat. So, the nap.

I had one of my EXTREMELY vivid dreams. The kind where I can actually direct what happens a little bit. This one was disturbing, at best. The dream had the usual characters who are involved in my crap dreams: my mother, my brother, and my father. He comes back in these dreams as a drunk, dumbass, and we all know he died, but we stopped reacting to his presence as if it’s freaky. It’s like, oh, there is dead drunk dad again.

In the dream, my dead drunk dad kept trying to grab at me and fondle me and grope me and kiss me. And other things. I got away from him many times. But then it occurred to me that I needed someone to see it happen. So, I made the dream kind of reset. My dad came at me and I honestly couldn’t get away. And my mom walked in and totally saw it. My dad stopped and those two walked off together, with their heads together, discussing how I always do things wrong. How things are my fault. And my mom assumed that whole my dad attacking me was my fault. And then she was telling him about the money I used for emergencies.

I saw her a little later and I was, like, what the fuck? You saw what he did. And she said why, no, I didn’t see anything like that.

This same basic thing played out a few more times. Once with my brother watching. But then he turned into Chris, and Chris got right in my dad’s face and really let him have it. He yelled at him, then he yelled at my mom. But it was like they couldn’t hear it. But in my dream I was happy that someone believed me. I am not really sure if that was Chris or my brother believing me. But my mom never, ever did.

There is another layer to this dream, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing it yet.

I feel like the dream was a way for me to know she did know but pretended she didn’t. And it also answered the question of why I let her effect me instead of ignoring her. I have serious rage issues about her.

I can’t shake this dream. Maybe that means I missed something?
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Who is zooming whom?

Who is zooming whom?

Now that school is in, I am going to really dig in and work on this stuff. I took today off, because I do that every first day of school. You know, I got him through the summer alive! Woo! And then I nap.

Anyway, I hadn’t said anything to anyme today, so a little while ago I sort of cleared my throat and said I would like to have a meeting, and that any of them who would like to come may come. And then I said something like, you know, not any one of us is more important than any other one of us. Just because I am doing the talking certainly doesn’t mean I am any better than anyme. And it hit me. I actually know the very least about myself. About my history, about who I was, about what happened in my life. I know nothing. I know what they tell me. I am just the talking head. I am the least important part as far as who I am goes. I am extremely impaired. I have a sketchy at best idea of who I am. I am just a reactive duties-doer of a highly dysfunctional collection of parts whom together make up the whole of me. I am Coach Buttermaker. I am Professor Harold Hill. The head in front of the curtain the man hides behind.3272915636_51e30050d3_o

This is very interesting to think about.

I want to prove to the others that I am strong now. I will not let anyone hurt them ever again. They are safe. Plus, the bastard is dead and has been for seventeen years. They are all stuck in time. But not me. I am the doofus up front for the ages. I could have doofed my way through more decades if I hadn’t figured out that I am just a head. I am going to make sure I do this work. I am not just another pretty, useless head.

It’s surprising to me that I will play a key role in all of this. The leader. The organizer. The Parts Whisperer. That’s a lot for me. Me who knows nothing. Maybe we could find the one who knows the most and put her in charge.

Heh, I was reading that some parts have natural talents that went missing when the part closed herself off. What if I can really sing? Or do handstands? I know I have a part that loves to cook. And a daredevil part that isn’t afraid to try a flip on the trampoline or to snowboard or sled backwards. She really wants to bungee jump. One of me was good at soccer. One of me is an excellent writer. One is a mathlete. One loves the biology of bugs and trees and birds. Today’s me likes to nap.

Give it a name.

Give it a name.

I am going to have to try new things. More talking to them. Being nicer to myself. Maybe writing with my left hand. Maybe that notebook idea where I leave a notebook or seven around the house, easily accessible to my peeps. I have to gather information. It’s possible if I ask questions, I will get answers. I will have to believe whatever pops into my head. Which is something I have learned to do through therapy, especially EMDR. It’s probably natural to question those things, but I think we all (you guys, too) should pay attention to what our brains are trying to tell us.

I feel like my day-to-day people are really similar, so that feels like it makes it harder to tell. 2051786468_091af1fdeb_o

I was disappointed this weekend that dirty sex me wasn’t around for Scott’s visit. But I think the right me was there. I felt largely relaxed and easy and go with the flowy. I wasn’t argumentative. Except for panicking while trying to leave to pick Scott up at the airport and the thing at Kroger with the expensive meat, I feel like I was pretty even. But not numb even. Pleasant even. Of course, I do not know how Scott perceived me.

I also would like some sort of sign or signal when there is switching.

This is maddening. I am not good with strangers. I am not good at being a stranger to myself. I like to know everything. If not everything, as much as possible.

I thought giving them names was dumb. Some kind of trick to make it all seem more normal. But that isn’t true. Well, it may be true. But that isn’t the only reason. It’s got to be easier. I don’t have to use human names. Maybe types or kinds of patterns of fabric. Like, damask or suzani or ikat. Or Greek goddesses. Or stripper names.

This article scared the crap out of me.

This article scared the crap out of me.

I read a fair bit of THIS ARTICLE this morning, and it is sort of frightening. To me. Us. I did scoot on by the God parts.

I feel like there are nuggets of truth in there, though. I know I have a need to know who the crap I am every day. And whose voice is talking to me. Or whatever. Like, seriously what the fuck is going in in here? I have no idea. Not really.

What the confusion feels like. After the switch, that is.

What the confusion feels like. After the switch, that is.

It’s like stepping in for someone at work when you are a waitress. They have all of these tables running, some have drinks, some need drinks, some are waiting to order, some need their food, some need to see the dessert tray, that one guy needs a coffee refill. But you get all of that information in about one minute of time. And you have to get out there and do those things and try harder to remember those things than you have ever tried hard to remember anything. It’s the Friday dinner crowd at a swanky, upscale restaurant at the mall RIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS!

So, you just move, hoping the faces you see at the tables and the contents of the table will help you remember as you fly by. Oh, there’s the coffee cup guy. Oh, those people have the remnants of cleared dinner dishes on their table, a few used knives, a bread plate with a piece of crust and an empty butter pat souffle cup. They want dessert. And on and on like that. You race to catch up and make sense of things at the same time.
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For me, I just got back to being that regular me who is probably the best me at the day to day things. I wake up at 3:45pm, the day is already half over. I have to figure out what we need as far as foods from the grocery store, AA batteries, printer ink, my beta blockers. What needs to happen right now.

Oh, Rob is up. I can give him a bowl of Lucky Charms to hold him for a bit, as he picks out the marshmallows individually. Then I can assess if he will want a pancake or pizza, as it’s late afternoon. Look around the house. What can I get cleaned up before my mom gets home? I am already worried about seeing her because she came downstairs last night, before we went driving at 5am, all worried and kind of scrutinizing me. As she should have, as I was absolutely dissociated. So, I want her to think it just seemed that way because she was basically asleep when she came down to use the restroom and look at me.

I can get the house pretty well in order and then get the printer ink. I can get the beta blockers while I am out. Oh, the doctor rejected my refill request. Don’t cry, don’t cry. He doesn’t know you have DID and that you weren’t taking the beta blockers consistently until towards the end of the bottle. And that you just realized it was helping tremendously. It was keeping my heart rate down, thus cutting down the number of times I feel this sheer I am in the weeds feeling of near-panic. You guys might know that feeling– running late to a very important thing and you can’t find the papers you need or your keys and wait you need to bring that thing for that lady and grab a bottle of water, and fuck, you need to get gasoline. You know?

Also, it is on my shoulders to stay with this day as me and make it go better than yesterday did. I simply could not do anything about getting Rob to bed. He was far too busy, he was not listening. I checked out by dissociating, which I could feel for the first time. I have to do today right. We have to take our drive at 10pm. Or, fuck, even midnight, at this point. That would be six hours earlier than yesterday. Rob is pushing against going to bed because he knows how many more days of summer vacation are left.

I have to do better today, and do it in a way that inspires confidence in these two around me. Mostly my mom. If she had the ability to put pieces of things together, she could figure out what I have. One night she said I seemed like a completely different person. And she has been looking at me funny when I know I am a different me than usual. I don’t want to tell her because she will not believe me. She will say my therapist told me I have it and it is a scam. She will cling with her last breath to that common dead alcoholic who caused her years and years and years of grief. He damaged her. She remains damaged. But she will cling to whatever romanticized memory she has of him until she dies. Instead of, you know, believing in me. Her world would, I suppose, collapse inside itself and she would have to go to a mental health facility for a nice, long stay.

I am going to take a whole mg of Ativan now, since I don’t have the betas. I am going to make myself eat. I am going to shower. I am going to keep on Rob until we get to Flub’s, the beginning stop of our nocturnal life. After that is the park, then scootering. Then the hardest part. Getting him to get in the car for this fucking drive we do. He will not cooperate. But if I say, okay, now or never, or if I say no driving tonight, he completely goes cold and starts repeating over and over, “Driving tonight, driving tonight, driving tonight,” and he is all set to have a meltdown. It’s like he absolutely needs this drive to exist. But he won’t just go. It can take hours to get him to go. Hours. And that is why I dissociated from it last night. I had decided to try just letting it happen and not getting emotionally involved in the when part. I apparently achieved that by dissociating. And that would have worked great if I hadn’t figured out with the other parts of my brain that I *was* dissociated. And then all of the stuff that went along with that from the last post.

Please alert me of typos.

Realizing I was dissociated while it was happening and a switch.

Realizing I was dissociated while it was happening and a switch.

This is getting even more interesting. This DID thang I am working. Tonight, I totally realized while I was dissociated that I was dissociated. Not at first. At first I just felt sort of numb. I was not to able to produce an affect. Like, void of any sort of need or desire to do anything. I literally sat here, doing nothing at all, but it felt fine.. Comfortable, even. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I just was.

But after a while, maybe an hour or two, I have really no concrete idea of how long, it started to kind of hurt. I felt like I was reaching for an emotion of any sort and couldn’t locate one. It was like a longing almost. Or like the space between my throat and my heart was being pinched off. It didn’t feel pinchy per se, but maybe blocked. Or not even there at all.

When I finally did locate an emotion, it was sort of a terror kind of feeling, with hurried sobs and no breath coming in. It was similar to panic, but it was like being on the inside of panic, not having the panic inside of me.

That didn’t last very long. Maybe ten minutes. And then I got the switch headache. And now I feel like the most common me. The me that feels the most like me. What I would call the regular me. The one who talks to herself and is very kind and thoughtful of others. But in a pathological way. It’s endearing-ish. So, anyway. There that is.

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More on which me am I today.

More on which me am I today.

This me feels optimistic. Unfettered. Had to google unfettered to make sure it was the right word. Easy going. Not immediately fearful of anything. feels like today will go okay even though my son was awake until after 4am and is actually still asleep now, meaning getting him to bed at an earlier hour tonight won’t be easy. It’s just time. It ain’t no thing. This me just said ain’t, but refused to say thang.

This me doesn’t care that I have an overdraft because it will be covered tomorrow when I get paid. It isn’t anything I can fix, anyway. It will all be okay. Optimism. Time is just time. Money is just money. I can only do what I can do. Easy going. Bad with vocabulary. Not as blunt as some of the others.

This is not an unhappy or scared me.

Anyone have anything to add based on me today? I don’t think this is green or blue.