And when I didn't die that night, I wanted to kill myself.
Why did my brain have to go there today? All day I've been reminding myself to "stay present," that I'm not trapped in a car on a freezing cold November night 14 years ago.
Today has been a struggle.
Time is not linear. Especially when you have PTSD.
I've got a neat group of friends. Every conversation is one of a kind, totally random, and unexpected. Sometimes we don't see each other for months or sometimes we'll talk several times in one day.
I've known some of them for over 10 years, while others I have known for a few weeks.
There's A. She's got everything figured out. She can cook, wrangle kids, take care of our sick friend, likes Pad Thai, and is fiercely protective of those she loves. I love that Awill level with me and put me in my place when I start to get overwhelmed. She assures me that I'm not responsible for fixing our sick friend.
There's V,who cracks me up. She's the teenager in group. Seriously, she's 16, maybe 17. I never remember and her age is dependent on what day of the week or hour it might be. I love to tease her that she'll be shopping for Depends with me in the future, which she flat out refuses to acknowledge. She loves pink nail polish and is a great baby-sitter.
I recently met Sand although I don't know her that well, I do love her artistic talent. She draws really pretty flowers.
D is another friend I met just a few weeks ago. Our first exchange was through text messages. She can't spell well, but one can't expect much from a 4 year old. I gave her a candy flavored lip-balm as a gift shortly after we met and the joyful look on her face could have lit up a stadium.
I've hung out with OG once or twice. She doesn't like to talk much, but when I tell her about the summer days I spent at the Florida beaches as a child, she listens. Once we painted our nails blue like the ocean.
EJ and I hung out in college, but she left about 6 months ago and I haven't heard from her since. She had an eating disorder but my friends and I didn't know how to help her. I hope she's at peace.
I met N about a year ago. We hung out for about 20 minutes, but in that short time I learned that she loved to spin in circles and play with dolls. She told me that her mother took away all her dolls when she was about 6 telling her 'only babies play with dolls.'
Shortly after meeting N I met C. I found her curled up on the kitchen floor, crying and shaking. She was scared and convinced that there was a terrible man lurking just outside the house.
There are several other friends I have met, but some are so shy that they haven't properly introduced themselves. And then there's H, the most important one of this group. She is amazingly strong, funny, loving, zany, and intelligent. We've had so many adventures, near misses, and countless laugh-until-we-can't-breathe moments. She flew to Florida when my wedding was cancelled and held me when I was inconsolable. I couldn't imagine another woman who has more endurance and strength to overcome the most awful circumstances. All these wonderful friends of mine, all these different people with their own sets of likes, handwriting, hobbies, and tastes in coffee share the same body. They share the same body.
Dissociative Identity Disorder was once labeled as Multiple Personality Disorder. People hear that and immediately think of United States of Tara or Sybil, the former a bastard-Hollywood version, the later a bit closer to the truth.
DID generally occurs when a child under the age four experiences HORRIFIC abuse. Not your run of the mill 'being-smacked-around-by-alcholic-parents' or 'bullied-by-siblings' abuse.
Think of every horror/psuedo-sexual slasher movie you've ever seen advertized and then multiply that by 20.
And then forget that. . . .Because the abuse suffered by person who lives with DID is not quantifiable.
In an attempt to cope with the trauma and abuse that is happening the brain shatters like a dropped mirror. Each piece reflects the victim but in a different manner, at a different angle. Each piece of the mirror become a new person, an alter. Someone who shares the same body of the victim, who comes into being to help the victim cope. These alters are a testament to the mind's capacity to struggle to survive.
I've listened to the stories and I've read the dairies of my friends, these alters. Everyone has their own tales and memories of horrifying, unspeakable, unbelievable events. Sometimes I've wept; at times I have gotten physically sick; other times I've felt pure hatred and anger course through my veins.
I yearn to take away the pain and suffering H has dealt with since she was 2, but I can't. I can only love and support her. Listen to her when she needs to talk, laugh at our shared history, sneek a cigarette when our kids aren't looking, and hang out with her alters when she needs a break. I can't thank these friends enough for taking care of H when she couldn't do it herself. And I couldn't ask for a better set of friends. ~ ~ ~ ~ Coming Apart: Trauma and the Fragmentation of the Self is a good article if you would like to learn a little more about DID.
Apparently back in March of 2012, I wrote this post, but never published it. Rather than dumping it into the delete folder, I'm publishing it. Because at that time, this amused the shit out of me.
Today’s Ronnie Dunn-free post is brought to you by the letters Q,U,E, and the number of Pi squared. This mediocre blogger is still unable to spell February without the aid of spell-check and is a big fan of profanity. Please direct all rabid comments or winning African lotto tickets towards The Diatribest.
Since December I’ve fallen into the terrible habit of sleeping until the last possible minute before I have to wake up The Kiddo for school. Prior to the never-ending-Niagara-SnotFalls-fest at Christmas, I would get my ass up in time to mainline 2 cups of coffee while watching reruns of Angel.* Now I’ve gotten too lazy to get back into a decent sleep schedule so most mornings I run around the house, working harder than a hooker on dollar hand job day to find a matching pair of sock and shirt that doesn’t look like it was washed and dried on rocks.
I’m lucky if I can get ½ a cup down before I jump in the car, cursing as I realize that the travel mug of coffee will be waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I return. So when I get back and nuke the now cold coffee, I will flip on the TV to drown out the noises of the neighbors next door. This morning the Flintstones were not so loud that I heard the bi-speckled TV grandfather clearly announce: “I use catheters; do you?”
I developed sudden hysterical deafness but not before hearing that Brand X “is so silky and smooth.” While I searched in vain for the clicker (which I had been sitting on) I willed myself not to vomit or think of Sally Field’s Sybil. If I could have I would have brushed my ears with Clorax and a Brillo pad.
Here’s the thing. I have such a sailor mouth that during labor I said words that the attending doctor had never even heard. I have no problem laughing at a penis joke. But please, for the love of Kentucky Friend Chicken, DO NOT tell me about your (un)sexy crotch problems.
Ever since the world was informed that Raymond’s constipation was eased by a dose of Milk of Magnesia, we’ve been bombarded with commercials about jock itch, vaginal dryness, droopy dicks, feminine odors, and leaky bladders. I’m sorry that John and Joan Q. Pubic are having below the belt problems, but shouldn’t that be something you tell your doctor or maybe discuss with your best friend and not me?
Tomorrows coffee will be accompanied by the second book in the Hunger Games series. Katniss might have to brutally kill several more people, but she won’t inform me on their bits and pieces.
*(PS-David Boreanaz? Is my TV crush! I looooooove you!)
**(Yes, I know he’s married and no, Rachel, he does not have a huge forehead!)
I love my family. Really I do. With all the crazy ups and downs, laughter filled dinners, cold stoney after-fight silences, hugs and rough-housing, raucous cheering at sport events, and quite admiration at award ceremonies.
But they don't always get me. And after years of feeling so out of place, black sheepish, anger at myself, I've arrived at a place in my life where I can say with confidence that my family may not always get me, but I'm okay with that. I'm not ashamed to be me because I am different.
And that's what I think my mother has come to accept in my too.
I've been childless for the past month as The Growing Boy has been down in Fl visiting the bevy of aunts and uncles. I know he's been having a blast and missing me at the same time. I can't wait to pick him up later this week. I've missed him so much more than I ever could have imagined.
I was filled with much trepidation and anxiety last month, waiting for my mother to show up for a week long visit before she would fly back to Fl with The Growing Boy. I was half prepared to drink or Xanax myself to sleep every night, frustrated and exhausted from her disapproval and judgement.
But something happened on the third night she was here. We stayed up until 3AM talking about everything under the sun. Mental Illness. Child rearing. Diet. Love of food. Life decisions. Relationships. And it finally clicked for the both of us when we started talking about defiance.
One of my younger sisters is going through a difficult time right now. She feels lonely and friendless, out of place and angry, mixed up with adolescent emotions and dreams of her future. My mother said to me that my little sister was "defiant."
I challenged her to look at my sister as different, rather than defiant. Mom countered that she thinks I'm defiant because I have blue hair and that I hold onto the silly idea that I should be loved for my individuality, when in reality life would be a lot easier for me if I did more to fit in with the mainstream, rather than fight it.
When she said that, a bulb went off in my head. Everything I've read about every wonderful, crazy, intelligent, emotionally wounded, talented person came to mind. And I realized that I fit there, too.
"I don't see myself as defiant. I'm just different. To me defiant is the Russian rock band Pussy Riot that climbed up on the alter of an Orthodox Church for an impromptu performance, calling for the ousting of Putin."
I continued, "Look at all the lovely works of art that have been created over the ages. The music played, the stories written. All that came from artists. Artists who were considered weird, who didn't fit in with society. And some of them were kinda bastards that no one wanted to hang out with. Sometimes with one side of their brain being open to such creativity, their social side was crap. Michelangelo was not a really fun person to hang out with. But out of his differentness, came amazing beauty. Look at Van Gogh. That man was a tortured, mentally-ill nut case. He died penniless, yet The Starry Night, painted from his asylum window is one of the most recognizable works."
So as we continued to talk, late into the early morning hours, my mother got to know me a bit better. And I got to know my place in the world a bit better.
And I'm so happy. Happy knowing that the imagination I have, the dancing in the aisles of Wegman's, the bursting laughter, the blue hair, that's all me. I am different from the next door neighbor. Not the same mother as the mom from karate class. And as I work hard to raise a wonderful, scary intelligent, Tourette tickish, loving and lovable little boy, I can take pleasure that my differentness, my weirdness, my individuality is a strength. Not a defect.
(Side note, I am a firm believer in hate-free, freedom of speech, and
public protest, but storming the alter at a church whether it be
Catholic, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or Buddhist is just wrong. Wrong
time, wrong place, wrong audience. If you are going for shock value,
you aren't going to convince your enemies that you argue is valid. If
anything, it will solidify your opponents believe that you are a total
douche bag.)
Within
moments Bod had consumed the plate piled high eggs and tomatoes. As he
turned his attention to the bangers and mash, a small burp escaped from
his lips.
A pig-tailed toddler across the car giggled.
The child's mother tried to shush her all the while proclaiming with a
loud, self-righteous scold that, "Some people are born with manners and
others aren't."
Blissfully unaware of the sneering woman, Bod returned to the
food table and served himself another steaming bowl of porridge. He
drowned the hot mash in heavy cream and sugar. The taste was so sweet
and satisfying he felt like a little child sneaking cookies from the
cupboard before dinner.
A young woman wearing an apron with a matching cap stopped by
his table. "Good morning, young Master. Are you enjoying all your
breakfast?"
When Bod looked up, the wind was knocked out of
his lungs. The girl, this girl, was it Liza Hempstock? Where those
the same dancing grey eyes that bewitched him? Had she followed him out
of the graveyard? Surely she wasn't bound to the graveyard as she
wasn't buried on consecrated ground, but how did she get so far? And
how could he see her so well, for at the height of his Freedom of the
Graveyard, his ability to see her clearly was like seeing a gray cat
walking in the shadows of early night.
"Liza? How did you find me?"
"No, I'm sorry. My
name is Melody. I work the morning shifts on the food car to London,
but I think there is a girl named Lilly that works the evening shifts.
Is that who you are looking for?"
A lump formed in Bod's throat and he swallowed hard. "No. Sorry. No. You
looked like a friend of mine. I was just so surprised, so excited,"
Bod trailed off, unsure of how to explain that moments before he had
mistake this girl for the gray-eyed witch.
Melody smiled. "Is there anything I can get you? You seem to
have eaten your fill but would you like a glass of juice, coffee or a
cuppa tea?"
"Oh yes, that would be marvelous!"
"Alright, so which would you like?"
"All of
them." And then seeing the puzzled look on the girl's face, Bod
wondered if he made a mistake. "Uhhhhh, if that's allowed."
"That's quite alright. I shouldn't be staring. You are
welcome to anything you'd like. I've just never heard of anyone wanting
all three drinks at once," she chuckled.
"Well, I've never
seen so many different food and smelled so many odors. And they're all
good. Except that stuff labeled haggis. Looks a fright. But I keep
smelling something pointy and I must have it. Can you bring me the
pointy thing?"
"I'm not sure what Young Master wants, but I will bring the drinks round."
"Please,
don't call me Master." Remembering the Sleer had told him to find his
name, he said proudly, "I'm Nobody. Nobody Owens. Bod for short."
"Okay, Mister Nobody Owens, I'll see if we can find this pointy thing for you."
With a wink and a turn on her heel Melody strode away from the table.
