Resilience

It's been a while since I posted. Some of it is that I've been busy, some of it is that I've been sick when I haven't been busy, and I guess a bigger part of it is that I haven't been in much of a writing space lately.

I guess I've gotten out of the habit, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. I tend not to write as much when things are going moderately well, and I was kind of in the habit of coming to this blog when I was really trying to sort things out.

I guess I would come here most often when I was trying to shore up my life. I would write about things, trying to figure things out, trying to hold myself together. And I've needed less of that in a lot of ways. I'm coming up on a full year since the worst of the depression ended. I think this is probably the longest stretch I've gone without having that lurking depression inside of me. I would never say it's gone forever, but I'm feeling pretty confident that I'm able to handle it.

Because here's the thing: I do still get depressed. I've even come close to being suicidal, although it's kind of like I built a staircase out of that deep, dark pit, and while I might drop down into it, it doesn't take long for me to find the way out again. Which is pretty damn amazing, you know? To have the depression come up, in response to things that objectively suck in my life, and then to be able to find the path to not being suicidal any more.


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I've been thinking a lot over the past week or two about doing something for the It Gets Better Project. (For those of you who don't know, it's a community response to the number of recent suicides by kids who were being bullied for being queer.)

Mostly, though, I've been defending the project to people who are absolutely livid that someone is saying "It gets better." I guess the people who object to that are still really caught up in their own pain, and can't see how important it is for someone to be able to believe that things get better. The people I've seen who object to it don't seem to believe that things *do* get better, I guess. And so they're angry that the problem of bullying isn't solved immediately. They're maybe jealous of people who *did* find a way to make things better. And, with some of them, it seems as though they think the people who are living better lives now got there by luck or magic or something, and they feel cheated that they (the ones who are currently unhappy) didn't get that magic.

All I know is, one of the things that helped me through some of the worst times was the fact that there was always at least some part of me that refused to stop believing in the possibility of things getting better. Sometimes, it was a very small piece of a very quiet part of my system. But it was always there. It thwarted my suicide attempts. It kept me going to therapy even when most of me was absolutely certain that nothing would get better, ever, at all.

It took me almost eighteen years of therapy to get to a point where I felt better. Objectively, I have to admit, I didn't start feeling really bad until my external circumstances *were* better. When I was still being abused, I was pretty damn certain that there was better, and I did what I had to in order to live to get there. Hell, I did what I had to so that the future I got to would be a place I wanted to live. And that SUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKED. Just to be clear. I wanted to leave home when I was eleven. I knew it was horrible. I knew it was bad for me. And I also knew that, since I didn't have anywhere to go, anywhere safe to live, that leaving home would mean that I was going to close off a lot of options for myself. Options I wanted to have, like being able to go to school. So I made a deal with myself: live through these next seven years, and then you can leave home. So it was seven years more of abuse, choosing over and over to stay, since I didn't have anywhere I could run away to. I mean, I could have lived on the streets. Hell, it's probably even the case that, had I said something to some of my friends, they would have helped me. But I didn't know that then, so it didn't seem like an option.

Anyhow. I got through those seven years by holding onto the belief that it would get better. That I could leave the abuse behind me, and that things would be BETTER.

And they were, on the outside. I can still remember that first year away from home. Have you ever done the thing where you press your arms against the sides of a doorway, as hard as you can, for a minute or so, and then step out, and your arms just float up, without you making an effort? It was like that. I could just float through things. Everything seemed easy, everything seemed perfect.

And then the nightmares started, and the flashbacks. And I started having all of those horrible feelings coming up, the ones from when I was being abused. I felt like I was a horrible, worthless, disgusting person. I felt like a fraud. I felt like if people found out about me, they would despise me. I felt like people were about to reject me. And so on. And I could look around at my life, and see that everything outside of me was great, and so it seemed like the logical conclusion was that I was the one who had something wrong with me. The problems were inside of me, and there was no escape. And that is when I got suicidal.

I'm just kind of rambling now, still trying to work out what it is that I want to say for the It Gets Better Project. Because what I want to say is, even when the outside circumstances have improved, you might not feel better yet. And that is realistic, and human, and it DOES NOT MEAN YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FEEL BETTER. It just means you need to keep working on it.

What I want to say is, you have to do a lot of work for it to get better. It's not just going to happen for you. You have to find ways to be around people who are supportive. You have to find ways to accept yourself. You have to find your own way into being safe, and you have to make some hard choices along the way.

What I want to say is, you have to keep going. Even when it seems like you're never going to make it, you have to stay alive anyways.

What I want to say is, those of us who have survived have a responsibility to help those who are still being hurt. We need to do what we can, both to make things better, AND to give hope to the ones who are still struggling. There are a lot of different ways to do that, but being as honest as we can, and speaking up as much as we are able, is one of the ways.

I'm still thinking this through, but I wanted to write something down for now.

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hating being crazy

today is one of those days where i am really HATING being crazy. really hating it.

instead of watching the inauguration, i had therapy. things kind of went downhill from there. i mean, just spending my day having therapy is bad enough in the usual run of things. other people have jobs, do useful things in the world, do things for other people, and so much of my time is taken up by coping with the fact that i am crazy.

and today, it was the inauguration of the first african-american president. this is amazing. i am thrilled. and yet... the tears i had today were not tears of joy, and it was the stupid, all-about-me feelings that i hate having, but don't have the force of will to keep from coming.

why was i crying?

i was reading an email, and someone was writing about how wonderful this is for little biracial children, how they can look to the white house, and see that anything is possible. and the tears came, because here i am... i had so much potential. when i was a kid, teachers would say that i could become the first black, and the first female president. they really believed i had that much potential.

as i got older, i realized i didn't want to go into politics, but i definitely still had that potential. i really believed that i could do anything i set out to do. and for 20 years, for maybe even 30 years, i was able to make that be true. hard work, intelligence, luck. whatever combination of things, it was working. i was demonstrating how much i could do, in spite of handicaps.

it was about overcoming. that's kind of how i made peace with the things i couldn't control: i focused on overcoming them. sure, we were poor when i was growing up, but that was something that didn't have to be permanent, that didn't have to say anything about who i was as a person. same with me being biracial, or female, or anything else.

i guess i thought that by getting past it, by achieving what i wanted in spite of the things that made it hard, that kind of erased the negatives.

and then... it feels like it all got thrown off by me going crazy. everything else, i managed to handle. i even dodged the bullet several times with going crazy. i can think of times where it came so close, and i managed to get past it, and keep going on.

so this last time... damn, it sucks. it's like i lost all of the things i was trying to do, which means, deep down, that it feels like i lost my chance not to be the person that the bad stuff happened to. because that's what the accomplishment was about. it was about proving to the world, or maybe more, proving to myself that just because i was black, or poor... just because i was abused during my childhood, it didn't mean i couldn't have a good life as an adult.

it's not about being black, or poor, really. certainly, those are things i can talk about with people, so i can tell they aren't the things i have trouble with. but i guess that i believed that if i just did enough, achieved enough, overcame enough, i could erase the abuse. make it like it didn't matter, didn't count, didn't really happen.

and then being crazy came along, and proved I really couldn't just ignore it. I couldn't really just act like it hadn't happen or didn't matter. And I'm furious about that.

But maybe mostly, I'm furious with myself over that. It was my job to make it as though it had never happened. It feels like that was the only way my life could work, the life I wanted to have. If I could act like it didn't matter that I was abused, that it was all in the past.

It's not even, not exactly, that I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. I just wanted to have a life where it didn't matter that it had happened to me. Where I could deal with it, once a week, in a tidy therapy session. Where I could be a good advocate for children, make sure I did everything I could so it wouldn't happen to other children, and leave it at that.

I didn't want to walk around covered with scars. I didn't want to have to have it be this crippling thing that's making it hard for me to even make it through the day, with shockingly little expected of me.

I certainly didn't want it to take away from sharing joy with so many other people in this country, this historic moment that I feel is getting tainted by things that happened half a lifetime ago.

And that's part of what really makes me angry. That here I am, sixteen and a half years after leaving home, and I'm still reeling from the things that happened. It's not fair. I'm furious at my mind, for not being able to find a better way out, for interfering with my ability to cope. I'm furious with myself, for not being able to maintain the discipline that would have let me keep going on.

I want to be able to feel happy, and all I'm getting is sadness and anger. It sucks, and it isn't fair.

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exhausted

or, as the little kids say "i am EZOSTED!"

partly, it's fibro (and boy, do i resent having my fibro still flaring up in the fall! usually, i get a couple of months of better physical stamina! i WANT that. i NEED that!)

but more of it is that this was an exhausting weekend for me. yesterday was thoroughly aggravating until about 5:20. we were having a meeting of dinner collective--our first since we started a group on meetup.com, so i was anxious to get to the meeting place on time. but the chickens i was roasting turned out to still be frozen, which set me back by about an hour and a half (ever tried to rapid-thaw chickens, and then pry out the giblet packages from half-frozen chickens? not an easy task!)

and at the same time, our internet wasn't working (which turned out to be a router problem, and i need to figure out how to deal with that, since it's still happening sporadically.) so i was trying to fix that, thaw the chickens, get dinner made, keep the kitchen from becoming a *total* disaster, and not getting any down time.

dinner collective went well, although only one new person showed up. but we now have several meals in the fridge for next week, and that is a really good thing.

today was more emotionally exhausting. trying to deal with idiocy on our landlord's part, and doing some tiring processing with w (good, useful, not tense, but tiring never the less.)

last week was also very social, which can be difficult for me, so it's just been a while since i had down time, and there isn't a whole ton of down time coming up, either.

but that wasn't really why i started this post, now that i think of it. what i was *going* to write about is how i sometimes feel like i'm making things up.

case in point: tonight, the ones doing the majority of the processing with w were adults. those who have been reading for a while might be aware that the adult parts haven't been around a lot for the past year and more (not since the end of summer, 2007). they've been coming around more often for the past few months, but still not that often. one thing i, ellis, have noticed is that a lot of times in the past when w. and i both assumed it was adults, it was actually me. i have always operated as a kind of quasi-adult, so that makes sense. at least to me.

but the adults also tend not to announce their presence a lot of the time, at least, not if they aren't doing something specifically "adult." and i get that it can be uncomfortable to say "oh, right, this is who i am" to someone who has known you for a long time, and who you're used to just being "you" with. and the bulk of the time the adults were around, they were kind of the default, you know? i/we were with w for 4 1/2 years before DID was something we'd considered. and then the adults were only around routinely for about the first year post-diagnosis, and then it's been more than a year of us younger ones being the ones who are mostly out.

right. so the point. i went to check in with w before bed, and mentioned that it had been adults. i KNOW it was adults for the bulk of that discussion. it had happened a couple of minutes previously, and i'd gone into my room, and out for a cigarette, and then came back. and it seemed like a good idea to say, "hey, this is one of those times you got adult time." but it felt like i was making things up. not because of w's response, but because i had to say something. it's hard, because neither w nor i is always good, even now, at checking to see who is out. and it's hard, because there's a level where it feels like "if she can't see it herself, then i must just be pretending when i say what's happening."

not sure where i was going with this, but there it is. just some thoughts.

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thinking

i'm up late tonight for several reasons. the reason i'm *still* up is that we went grocery shopping last friday and didn't wind up cooking some chickens that were on sale really cheap (like 49 cents a pound cheap!) and rather than risk them going bad, w and i decided it made the most sense to go ahead and cook them tonight. and since i don't have to get up as early as she does, i'm the one doing the cooking.

we got home late, which caused the whole chicken discussion to happen at 10:30, because of our flaky couples' therapist, who rescheduled our appointment from 6 to 7. that alone wouldn't have gotten us home late, except that i was having serious panic and couldn't get onto the train. we tried... waited for at least three trains, and i just couldn't manage it. so w eventually suggested that we take a cab instead. on the one hand, this was a good idea. if i'm panicking to the point of being suicidal over getting on the train it really doesn't make sense to get on the train. on the other hand...

i feel really ashamed of the fact that i get suicidal over things like being in crowds. i mean, there isn't a good reason for it. i'm not actually in danger. i feel like i should just make myself cope. i feel like i should be *able* to cope. and i can't. there are things i can do. i pop rescue remedy like it's going out of style. i listen to music, i read, i do things to do healthy dissociation so that i'm able to get past the panic and get onto the train. i do a lot of positive self-talk: i remind myself that the train is safe, that it's ok for people to be on the same section as me, that it's not dangerous to have people stand near me. that i won't get hurt just because someone is standing in the same section where i am waiting. that it's not an aggressive thing for them to be doing. that they probably aren't even noticing me.

but really. normal people don't have to feel proud of themselves just because they managed to get onto the train. normal people don't freak out when someone else starts walking on the same sidewalk where they are walking. and i *know* that i used to manage all of that all right. but then i remember the times when i couldn't, like the times i wound up freaking out on planes because i didn't have a window seat, or all of the little things i've done for years to reduce anxiety.

see, the downside of dissociating less is that when i start to feel panic, i actually feel it. over the years, i've gotten less good at automatic dissociation.

and it's frustrating. i know that when i was growing up, i dealt with all kinds of things that were objectively way more stressful. and they didn't send me into suicidal... not exactly depression. it's panic to the point where death seems like a way better option, where it feels like there's absolutely no other way out.

someone inside had a good analogy for it, how i tip over so easily into feeling suicidal. it's like there's a cup, where things that need to be coped with are drops or splashes of water, and when the cup overflows, suicidal feelings spill out. for me, the cup is really small. on a good day, i can cope with whatever comes. but if the cup is getting filled up with things, even something pretty minor will make it overflow.

the good thing is, therapy over the past couple of years has gotten me to a point where the suicidal feelings don't last as long. it used to take longer for me to tip over into "suicidal," but then it would last for months. now, it doesn't take much at all, but it's over in hours or days. i suppose that's a good thing.

i just wish i could get to a point where i didn't tip over into suicidal at all.

and i guess another good thing is this is one more thing for me to think about at the times when i feel guilty for applying for social security: normal people, people who are coping well, don't actually have to struggle against suicidal feelings just to get onto the train, or to drive down the street.

it's not weakness, laziness, or any of that that is making me not be able to do the things i need to get done. if i could stop these feelings, i really *would* stop them. but i can't do it on willpower. and i don't need to be ashamed for my failure to stifle the feelings that make it so hard for me to do daily tasks.

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sometimes i get tired of the pity party

this is going to be a fairly non-specific post, because i want to make it clear i'm not speaking about any one person or group of people.

but sometimes i get REALLY tired of the whole "pity party" that tends to happen when people are coping with having a history of abuse. sometimes, it feels like there's a culture of saying "oh, woe is me, these bad things happen and there is NOTHING i can do to change this, and now another bad thing has happened, and ANOTHER.... oh, woe is me. oh, i can't do anything to change this."

and then you look at the situation, and it really seems from the outside that there ARE things that person could do, but if you suggest those things, then you are being unsupportive and cruel and not validating how difficult things are.

i guess maybe part of this, on my end, is a reaction to my older sisters.

here's my usual example of the kind of thing i mean (no triggers, unless you get really freaked out by a lack of sympathy on my end, or by financial stuff):

my older sister has trouble with her finances. she tends to spend impulsively, and she doesn't budget. she is well into adulthood--she has spent more of her life over the age of 18 than under it. and she would keep having services shut off, and wound up having her house foreclosed, because of financial mismanagement on her end.

her response? to be upset that our mother hadn't taught her to budget when she was growing up. so it's not my *sister's* fault she had money trouble, because it was our *mother's* job to teach her to budget.

and i often see people (to my knowledge, not people who comment on this blog, in case you're wondering) who do the same thing with their abuse histories. they are like, "oh, i wasn't treated right when i was a baby, so now i am forever scarred, so feel sorry for me."

well, ok, yeah. we do get scarred. it totally sucks. but there are things we can do to change that. particularly once we reach adulthood, we have a LOT of options.

it's not like we can make things perfect, because we can't. yes, there are a lot of things that are hard. and there are days when i can't bear the thought of going on trying to cope and heal.

what i'm objecting to is the people who really do seem to be refusing to move beyond acknowledging the pain. the ones who spend a whole lot of time talking about how everything is so hard, and don't spend time taking responsibility for their own lives. with people online, i try not to say much, because i know that only a tiny part of who they are shows up, and it's entirely possible that they *are* doing a lot of things to improve their lives.

but sometimes, people online remind me so strongly of people in my non-computer life. the ones who, rather than sitting down and learning to budget for themselves, spend twenty or thirty years bemoaning the fact that they weren't taught to budget in childhood. the ones who refuse to take action on their own behalf, because they are still waiting for someone to come and save them.

and, yeah, i'm speaking from a place of privilege. i managed to figure out how to go to college, and because my parents weren't paying for it, that meant that when i left for college, they no longer had any concrete way of controlling me.

i was fortunate enough to not get into an intimate relationship until i'd done enough healing work to be aware of what a healthy relationship looked like.

i have been amazingly lucky in my friends. while we all have our issues, we do seem to be more likely to encourage people towards healthy rather than unhealthy behaviors.

i have also been fortunate in the therapists i've worked with (barring the idiots right after i was in the hospital, but that was two months out of my life, and i was able to see that they weren't doing me any good).

it's not that my life is perfect, or that i don't have hard days. and i don't know, maybe there are people who look at me and my life, and see that same pity party going on. i mean, i'm not working, because of the fact that between fibromyalgia and DID, it's just a struggle to get more than three or four "good days" in a row. and i'm sure there are people who look at me and think "well, if she would just ______ then she could be doing so much better."

so i do try to be sympathetic, and generally, i hold my tongue when people seem focused on having a pity party. sometimes, i even type words of support, trying to be compassionate and respond to their pain.

but then i get frustrated, and just kind of back off. because there are some people who seem to focus so much more on how other people mistreated them, and how they are wounded, than on figuring out how they can take control of their own lives, and change things for the better.

just had to get this off my chest. and apologies to anyone i might have offended by writing this.

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sometimes i feel like a fraud

not about the DID. that, clearly, is really going on.

but... here's the thing. i have been working on pages for coping in crazyville. and i try to write things that are useful, helpful, optimistic there. i do the same a lot of the time when i post to a mind's journey.

i write things that, at some level, i know are true. i offer suggestions, support, advice.

and then i turn away from the computer, and there i am. severely depressed, or hurting. unable to find my way out of my own problems.

who am i to be talking about possibilities for change, ways of coping with feeling suicidal? it's not like i routinely get through days without feeling bad, it's not like i don't have times when the only way to cope seems to be that i just need to be dead.

and yet, when i'm able to read that information myself, it helps me, too. so i know it's good information. when i'm able to follow it, it does work.

but i feel like a fraud. it's like i'm saying things, but just faking it. i do kind of realize that it's not faking... that's part of having DID, i guess. that i will watch what other parts are doing, and it doesn't feel real for me. i mean, there are parts who really do genuinely seem to enjoy life.

sometimes i feel like maybe i should just hide, never make anyone have to deal with me. what is good about *me*? all i bring to this equation is a lot of pain and upset, anger, unhappiness. and it feels disingenuous when i am here, watching my body write these other things, these things that are focused on being more proactive. i don't feel proactive. i am not able to follow the advice i see *someone* in my body handing out.

and if i can't follow it, then why do i bother putting it online at all?

yesterday, someone wrote a page about the difference between help and rescue. but at the same time, there i was, just wanting someone to solve my problems. there are pages on the website about how it's important to choose life, and how other concerns don't matter as much when it comes down to a choice between those and being alive. but here i am... i get to a point where i can't cope, and it really does seem like the best choice is to just be dead, because i can't see any other way out.

so i feel like a fraud, offering the advice i don't really believe.

(um, i really don't want the sympathetic "everyone deserves to be alive, you're not a fraud" kind of comments, please. or the kind that say "you are SUCH a fraud, you're a horrible person, etc." for that matter. not sure what kind of comments i *do* want, but i know it's neither of those.)

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Dinner collective

or, some thoughts on creating community

W and I recently joined with her sister and a couple of our friends, making a "dinner collective." For us, this means that once a week (or less often, depending on schedules) everyone in the group cooks a meal that will serve five or six people. Then we pack it into leftover containers, meet up, share a meal with each other, and exchange the containers. For the effort of cooking one meal, we get to have five *different* meals. Plus, we have a low-cost, relaxed social gathering with friends.

I originally had one of these ten years ago, when I lived in Portland. I got the idea from Everyday Acts and Small Subversions, by Anndee Hochman. She described several dinner collectives or co-ops, and the idea struck a chord for me. Why couldn't I get some friends together and do something similar? While the idea of meeting with friends every night seemed appealing, it wasn't a practical option for us. So we settled on a weekly meeting, with containers of food to take home. It saved us a bit of money and a lot of time. I tried to start other dinner collectives later, but couldn't quite get them off the ground, because people were dubious about the concept.

So I'm glad to have one now, and the other members are equally glad. We find that it's much more exciting to cook if we know someone else is going to be eating the food as well. And since we're more excited, we try more ambitious recipes, which makes the food more appealing, which keeps us from walking to the nearest take-out joint rather than facing the drudgery of yet another meal cooked at home.

Even though we eat apart, there is still a social aspect to the meal collective. We think of each other as we're eating, or at least I think of the others.

I have been working to regain a sense I used to have, that it is possible to imagine my life as I would like it to be, and then find a path that will take me there. I can remember how I used to be able to leap from a vision of what I wanted into the implementation of that vision. And this experience with the dinner collective is reminding me that what it takes is making small steps.

So I'm also thinking about the other things I want in my life. What is it that I've been missing? How can I begin to find those things again? And how can I show other people that it's possible to re-shape our lives into a form that is more satisfying?

P.S. If you click on "preview this book" in the link at the top, you can browse the different sections. The chapter I'm talking about is here.

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unconditional love

ok. before i begin this post, i want to clearly say... generally, i am in favor of unfettered free speech (except spam--i DESPISE spam, and delete it). however. with this post, i'd like to request that people not leave any comments that are just to say things like "oh, poor you for having that experience" or anything like that. sometimes, sympathy is something i can't handle. if you feel you must, go ahead. but please don't feel obligated to say something, ok? thanks.

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I wish you hope, that keeps you looking toward tomorrow
and away from yesterday.
I wish you faith, in yourself and all humanity
and the belief that we will finally live as one.
I wish you joy, I wish you peace,
I wish you more than you will need.
I wish you unconditional love.

~~from Unconditional Love, by The Four Bitchin' Babes.

i started thinking about this post because of a conversation i had with w last night. even at the time, i knew i was asking kind of unfair questions. the kind of questions where, even though i wanted her to tell the truth, there was really only one truth that wasn't going to upset me.

you see, i asked her if, had she known how our lives would unfold, would she have chosen to be in a relationship with me. and she couldn't give me an unqualified yes. some of that is just w--she *thinks* too much about these questions, or she doesn't hear the question behind the one i ask. and i ask those questions, because i know she will give the automatic answer if i ask "do you love me? do you REALLY love me? do you love me unconditionally?" and i don't trust the automatic answer to be true. so i ask questions that have less automatic answers.

in my life, my experience of love has not been unconditional. growing up, i was taught that the path to being loved was fraught with danger. and to a child, or at least, to me as a child, love was the source of things like a reliable place to live, food, clothing, shelter. and, oh yeah, that emotional nurturing that is supposed to be so important.

but my experience of love was that it could be easily taken away. if i could not discern what the adults around me wanted, they would stop loving me. if i could not be good enough, or if i asked for things they were unwilling or unable to give, the love would be taken away. depending on the adult in question, that could mean that they would abuse me physically or emotionally, or it would mean that they just stopped noticing me.

and yet, in many ways, being noticed in a way i was told was loving could be equally dangerous. because sometimes, being noticed meant getting something perhaps intended as "positive" attention from people who really didn't consistently understand what it meant to be nurturing to a child, and how just because you're touching someone doesn't mean you're touching them... there. or in that way.

so i was not an especially cuddly child, to say the least. which also led to punishment, because if i couldn't accept nurturing love, the occasionally appropriate kind, the adults in my life would get furious. why was i rejecting them? why was i saying, with my body language, that i didn't appreciate their love? because that's what goes through the mind of a six month old, or a three year old, or even a ten year old. and because, clearly, being furious and raging is going to teach that child to accept nurturing when it's available.

there were adults in my life, people in my life who were not violent, who were not abusive in any way. but for my first five years, i didn't have any extended experience of that. so by the time i got to school, i understood the positive attention i got from teachers as being based entirely on my ability to be good--to learn quickly, to not ask for any extra effort, to help where it was needed without getting in the way. and let me tell you, it was much easier to follow the explicitly stated rules of school than it was to follow the invisible twisting path at home.

but here's the thing. you know how they say in trainings for people working with kids, that kids will seek out negative attention if they aren't able to get positive attention? that may be true for some kids. not so much for me. i didn't fully trust positive attention anyways, since i never could understand when positive attention was going to be safe. so i certainly avoided negative attention, and was fairly undemanding of other attention. if it seemed freely offered, i would take it. but i certainly didn't seek it out.

i learned not even to rely on family members who weren't abusive, because for whatever reasons, they tended to... well, to be unreliable. my father is a big example of this. i didn't meet him until i was eight. then, for the next 2 1/2 years, we wrote to each other, and i spent some vacations with him. and then he stopped writing, stopped having me to visit. he never really said why. he just stopped. for a lot of reasons, that just reinforced the message that there was something wrong with me, something that kept people from being able to care about me, to love me, to give me attention in ways that were safe.

yes, i had teachers. and i am grateful for them. but for the most part, teachers were something transitory. built into the relationship was that it was time-limited. it was a teacher's *job* to teach, and the would do it no matter how you behaved. when a teacher was kind, it still fell into my vision of what they were supposed to do.

looking back, with all the various times i can remember teachers going out of their way for me, it occurs to me that they actually cared about me, as a person, separate from what they were "required" to do. but it never once occurred to me, growing up, that a teacher would want to see me when they weren't being paid to do so. it never occurred to me to go back to see a teacher after i was no longer taking classes with them. because my baseline experience was that people only spent time with me when they felt they had to, that people only allowed me to be around so long as it benefitted them.

growing up, i somehow picked up the message that one's family is supposed to love a person unconditionally. and since it was pretty clear to me that my family did *not* love me unconditionally, i took away the lesson lots of kids in that situation do: that there was something about *me* that caused me to be less lovable. that this wasn't the fault of the people who were unable to love me, but something about me, as a person.

at some point in high school or college, i found out that my mother had had an abortion. (disclaimer: don't get me wrong. even with this particular experience, i am 100% pro-choice. people have every right in the world to determine for themselves what happens when they are pregnant.)

the thing is, my mother's story about how she had decided to have the abortion reinforced some really negative lessons i had already learned.

when i was a few months old, she divorced my father. and then she found out she was pregnant. i assume there were a lot of reasons she would have decided to have an abortion. i mean, being a single parent with three kids already, and not much money, having an abortion or giving the child up for adoption, would probably have been a good idea. had she decided to do this because she didn't think she could be a good parent, while it might have been kind of sad, i could see her point.

but the thing is, the reason she told me she had the abortion was because she was concerned the baby would be dark-skinned. my father is black, my mother (and the rest of my family) are white. she didn't feel she could go back and not have *me*, but the subtext as it came across to me was, "had i known what would happen, i wouldn't have chosen to have a biracial child."

i know there are parts who have often understood that the "wrong, unlovable" thing about me is the color of my skin. too "white" for my black father to want to have anything to do with me (or for the black kids in middle school not to beat me up for it); too "black" for my white (and rather racist) family to fully accept me. they coped with me by insisting i wasn't "really" black, but at the same time, my skin color came up pretty often. the conditions i understood for being loved required that i deny basic parts of who i am; and also that i not cause trouble, that i be hyper-good, simply because i was only loved on sufferance, and should i ever be difficult, i would be dangerously rejected.

and knowing that there had been the possibility that i would have had a sibling, someone who would have been my full-blooded sibling, who would have looked more like me, who would have been close to me in age... how much of the pain and loneliness and isolation i experienced growing up, how much of that might have been alleviated if my mother had chosen to carry the pregnancy to term, and have the child? at the same time, knowing what i know now... would i choose to subject someone else to what i grew up with? no. so i'm not going to say my mother shouldn't have had the abortion, because i can't see that it would have benefitted whichever soul eventually came to reside in that collection of cells.


okay, so where was i going with this post? oh, right.

so knowing all of this, knowing all of my experience of rejection, i was talking to w about my difficulty with trusting her. and i said, "it's really unfair to you, the fact that it's so hard for me to trust. because no matter how trustworthy you are, the hurdle you've got to get over to achieve my trust is set immensely high."

and w gave me the strangest look.

"unfair for me?" she asked.

because, ok, sure, it's kind of difficult for me, too. but i guess i'm used to it. i'm used to not being able to trust that anyone will love me unconditionally. but w isn't. she has mostly known people who were able to give and receive unconditional love. and here she is, in a long-term relationship, kind of stuck with someone who is always braced for rejection.

so yeah, to me, it seems harder on her. because she isn't doing anything wrong. because she isn't the one who hurt me. and yet, she's the one who gets the fallout from all of the pain i grew up with. and i'm less able to be a good partner to her because of that. we won't even get into the fact that she thought she was getting into a relationship with an adult, and seems instead to have gotten stuck with this whole mess of teenagers and little kids, and the adults have now been gone for seven months, with no idea of when they will return. so to me, it seems like the one getting the really unfair part is w. (yeah, i know. it's something i'll discuss in therapy.)

i do wish for hope, and for the ability to look towards the future rather than the past. but sometimes, the past gets in the way, and makes it awfully hard to build up the faith that unconditional love is even a possibility.

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trust

so the new couples' therapist w and i are seeing who (knock wood!) appears to be working out for us, has talked about trust several times.

and i was thinking about this. she asked whether i trust w, and i can honestly say i trust w more than i trust anyone else in the world. and that's a collective answer. we all trust her more than we trust anyone else.

which isn't precisely to say we *trust* her, just that we trust her *more*. the therapist (e, we'll call her) asked me to rate it on a scale of one to ten, so i'd say, overall with w, it's about a four. although probably it's a bit higher, but i was doing an average, you know. so maybe a five.

but then, i'm never quite sure what people mean when they ask me about trust. i mean, i trust pretty much anyone i interact with routinely not to be physically abusive. more or less, at least. there are parts who don't feel that trust, but they're also the parts who aren't entirely certain that anything actually exists. so i'd say, of us who are out often enough to have a sense of reality, we trust the people we interact with routinely not to be physically abusive.

i trust that when i buy canned food, the contents of the can will be what is marked on the outside. i trust that when i use my debit card, they will only take out the amount of money they are supposed to. i trust coffee shops and restaurants to give me food that isn't poisoned. i trust people driving cars to have some basic awareness of following traffic laws.

so where is it that i'm not trusting people? i have trouble trusting that they will remember i exist when i'm not right there with them. i have trouble trusting that people will follow through on things they've said they would do for me. i have trouble trusting that i will be able to depend on anyone outside of myself.

i'm able to trust people *not* to do things pretty easily. i trust people in my life not to go calling my family and letting them know about the things i've told about. i trust people not to tell me that i'm lying. mostly, on that last one, because there is still a lot of fear around people not believing me. but mostly, i trust that people will believe me.

i trust most people not to go out of their way to hurt me.

but at the same time, i really *don't* trust most people (or any people) to go out of their way to help me, or even, to go out of their way for me at all. and i guess that's where the lack of trust comes in. i find it really difficult to believe that people will make much of an effort, or respond well if i ask that from them. and i don't have much faith that people will continue to want to be friends with me, or whatever, if i ask for too much. and since i don't know where the line is, what "too much" is, i try not to ask for anything that hasn't been expressly offered, and try to avoid asking for too much of that, either.

and i guess there are parts who don't feel safe allowing emotional vulnerability to show, so probably, it's either just a long-ingrained habit, or we don't really trust people to be safe with emotional vulnerability. i guess we don't really trust that people aren't going to be critical of us, and reinforce the negative messages that run in my/our head: that i'm just lazy and selfish and not trying hard enough or working hard enough or that i'm making all of this up. a little bit, we're starting to trust a few people, and it's not like we've had too many negative experiences like that for a while (well, there was the hospital and right after, but that was so *clearly* messed up....)

maybe it's that it doesn't feel safe to allow myself to rely on anyone else. much as i and a lot of other parts are desperate for help, it doesn't seem safe to believe that someone else will be willing to be there to help us cope. and so we close off and withdraw, because sometimes, coping is the only thing we can do, and figuring out how to cope and also be with people becomes impossible. i don't know. and i *do* know someone else has been waiting to do something else, and i've held on for a while, but i guess i need to be done now.

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what are we to each other?

the title is referring to me (collective-me, and more specifically, the parts who have been around since august, which is to say, not the adults) and w.

it's something we've (by we i mean collective-me and w) been trying to figure out. it's one of the reasons we've been seeing couples' therapists. the plural in that is because the first two we saw didn't work out well. we'll see how the third one goes.

anyhow, i figured i might as well make a post about it, trying to figure it out.

if there were just one of me, and if it were one of the adult parts, or even if the adult parts were more present, the answer would be easy. the adults and w are partners. they have a romantic and sexual relationship that turned into a committed partnership. if it were just them, the answer would be easy. i don't know if the relationship would be easy, because from what i've observed, all relationships require a great deal of work, even in the absence of other issues.

but here's the thing. we younger parts definitely don't have a romantic or sexual relationship with w. for several months now, we've been sleeping in different rooms. (and let me tell you, that has made a huge improvement in our relationship, whatever it may be, because it reduced the degree to which we younger parts were getting triggered by being in a relationship with her!).

so we're not partners in the sense that most people would use that term, because it's not really a spouse-like relationship.

but it's not like we're strangers. w is the person i trust more than anyone else. it doesn't mean i trust her a LOT, it just means that i trust her more than anyone else. and i think that's true for pretty much everyone in the system.

when i was thinking about this earlier tonight, someone piped up that w is definitely *family*. which is true; family in the chosen sense, anyways. someone who is going to be there for me. someone who is an important part of my life. someone with whom i share a lot of history, with whom i live.

but it's still hard to work out our roles in this relationship.

i guess what i'm "supposed" to do is have the adults be the ones who are out more often, having a relationship with her, and the rest of us are supposed to... what? i don't know. i read the treatment guidelines for DID, and it seems to imply that it would be unhealthy for us to have a relationship with her separate from the adults in the system, that having w be anything other than the system's (the adults in the system's) partner is somehow unhealthy.

but that doesn't work. because the rest of us are inconveniently here. and we live with her and interact with her. she supports us financially. she supports us emotionally, and we try to do the same for her.

one thing that's been getting clearer to me is that i just don't quite understand how to be in an adult relationship. the adults seem to know this, but they have been blocked from coming out for six months now. and even though i (ellis, by the way) can do a lot of things the adults do, i really don't get how to be in an adult relationship. mature though i can act, developmentally, i'm only 15.

so it comes back to the question: what are we to each other? w isn't my partner, or the partner of any of us who have been around. she's not some random stranger. she's not really like a friend, although we are friends, kind of. the relationship is closer than that, and more... fraught with complications, i guess.

w has described it (and particularly these past few months) as being like what would happen if her partner all of a sudden had these kids she hadn't mentioned having before, and they all showed up on our doorstep, and moved in. and then her partner went away, leaving her with just the kids.

actually, that's kind of apt. although, looking back, w might have suspected something given that we were out buying toys on our second date!

but then, what is the relationship? i guess a lot of us inside here do kind of interact with her as though she were a stepparent. i mean, sometimes being friendly, sometimes being resentful, having this relationship that we can't quite understand or define, but knowing it exists.

i feel guilty that the adults haven't been around. not that i can figure out how to convince the others to let them back. they were getting close to doing that, and then all of these new parts started showing up, and things got really chaotic again. i feel guilty that i can't be her partner. and i feel guilty that i feel guilty for that, and i also understand that my guilt over that is tied to the degree to which i was expected to be my mother's partner when i was actually fifteen, and the anger and resentment i feel around that is about being triggered... but i do feel genuinely sorry that i can't just be the adult partner w needs. of course, in a lot of ways, what my mother wanted wasn't precisely an adult partner, which is probably why i was able to do the job back then. w seems to want more equality, and some indefinable (to me) adult-ness that the adults have, and that i just don't get.

anyhow, no great insight, but it's something i've really been thinking about. because maybe it would be easier to sort things out, if we could figure out what the relationship is in the first place.

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Needs and Wants meme

KatM at Finding the Light in the Darkness tagged me with the "Needs and Wants" meme from Survivors Can Thrive.

Rules of the “Survivor Needs” Meme:

Please link back to the originating meme at Survivors Can Thrive, so people can see its origins, get ideas for their own self-care list, see who’s already been tagged, and maybe we can track how far this meme goes.

=> List 25 needs and 5 wants. Try to restrict your needs list to things that have to do with being a survivor of some sort of abuse, assault, etc. Your wants list can be anything you want!

=> Use this list to remind yourself to get your needs met this holiday season and in the New Year.

=> Pass on this meme and tag five people to play this meme with you.

25 Things I Need

1. Basic subsistence: safe housing, food, shelter, medical care, clothing.

A good support system, which includes:

2. Friends who accept me as I am.

3. A therapist who is competent and ethical.

4. People I can call when I need support, or am lonely, or just because.

5. "Community" in the sense we used when I lived in Portland; people who are working together on activist causes, who also support each other and making sure to have fun in the midst of trying to help the world.

The ability to understand that:

6. My life is in my own hands; whatever happened in the past, my future is what I choose to make of it.

7. Things have changed, and I am no longer in a dangerous situation.

8. Not all people are untrustworthy.

9. It is good, and strong, and right to ask for help when I need it. It is ok to ask for help, even if the person I ask to help me isn't able to help in the way I ask them to.

The courage to:

10. Fail. Yes, the courage to do something even if I don't succeed. The courage to accept that I have not done what I set out to do.

11. Try again.

12. To face my past.

13. To face the future, and accept that it will come.

14. To speak my truths.

15. To be as open as possible about all of who I am.

16. To trust other people, and to believe what they say, rather than what I fear.

Time to:

17. Play.

18. Do healing work.

19. To learn new things.

From myselves I need:

20. Patience with the healing process.

21. The willingness to go slowly instead of trying to force myself to get "better" on someone else's (or my own imposed) schedule.

22. Cooperation amongst my parts, and a willingness to listen to each other.

23. Patience with each other, remembering that we each have our own issues to deal with. Even when it means continuing for a while to carry burdens we'd rather let go.

24. A commitment to each other, and to keeping the promises we've made to each other.

25. Self-awareness and distinctness for each part, because it really does seem to help us to heal.

Five things I want
1. (More) friends who live nearby; particularly, friends who are coping with some of the same issues.

2. A playgroup for littles, where they could spend time with other kids who are their age, without all the problems connected to someone in an adult body playing with external children.

3. To be able to help others, and share the things that have helped me.

4. A DID/MPD/Dissociative disorders visibility/awareness/activist movement. I want to know I am not alone, and to stop feeling as though I absolutely need to hide who I am. I want to stop feeling ashamed, and seeing others like me feeling as though they need to hide. (Note: I'm not talking about being "out" in every single situation; but, like many visibility movements, I've seen acceptance increase as people are able to be more visible. I want that.)

5. There are a lot of things vying for this last spot, but I'm gonna go with "To win the lottery." Because most of the things vying for this spot require a substantial amount of cash (living in a co-housing community; creating a community space for people to hang out and do projects and have gatherings; having a second-run movie theater that will show good movies even if I miss them when they are in theaters; having a huge playroom with room for all the littles' toys; having the ability to do all the travel I'd like to do; plus all of those crass material wants most people have.)


I want to add here that many of the things on my "needs" list are things I do have, to one degree or another. Not necessarily all the time, but I am exceptionally fortunate in the people who surround me, and in the life I have. It's sometimes hard to believe that these are things I've chosen, and brought into my own life, but they really didn't happen accidentally. And while some of it was luck, some of it was the result of life choices I made when I was in the middle of growing up. I'm grateful to my earlier selves for everything they have done to get me where I am now. And I hope we're able to continue to help each other through this new phase of our lives.

Okay, so let me think of who to tag.

Definitely Fallen Angels, at "A Safe Place"

These others, well, I don't know if you've been tagged yet, but I'd rather post this and get on with my day, I didn't see you tagged in the places I checked, so:

Roses on the Moon.

Village of Many.

Oompaa/hlhshorty.

Ophelia at "Welcome to the Twilight Zone." (I know your blog is friends-locked, but I figure it won't hurt to invite you to do the meme!)

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spaced out

I'm never sure what to think. There is evidence that I exist, so it shouldn't be this hard. Not sure who I am. All I know is, it doesn't feel like I lose time, until I start to realize that I'm just, I don't know, vague about specifics. But it's not just about not being aware of what the others experience. It's like I lose time even when I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who is present.

And it's hard for me to really believe the others exist. Or that I really have DID. I mean, I can look at journals, and see writing that clearly isn't mine. I can see evidence of things that were most likely done by someone in this body, but which I have no idea how to do. But I guess I'm used to that vagueness.

I remember being in school, kind of. I mean, I can remember walking in the halls and stuff. And I know I'd have no idea what was going on, but then, in the classes, I knew what to talk about. I guess that just seemed like what was normal for me. Maybe not for everyone, but not so out of the ordinary.

I don't really remember much. I know how to get home, if I don't think about it. Put into any city where I've lived, I could probably figure out how to get to where my house was, figure out where the key was, get to my room.

Time doesn't seem real, honestly. It's strange. I'll look around me, and nothing seems unfamiliar, but it doesn't seem familiar, either. It's like things only half exist.

I suppose I should have a name. My therapist asked for one, the last time I was in the office, a couple of weeks ago. She wanted to know how old I am. How can I tell her, when I'm not really sure. I don't really have a name. I'm not entirely sure I exist.

I can tell from the handwriting that I'm not one of the others. But that's a weird way to know you exist, that you have different handwriting. I mean, shouldn't there be something more?

Maybe I'm just a placeholder, but then why am I here, wondering who I am?

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I am my mother's daughter

I see so much of her in me. Whether it was just the genetic luck of the draw, or whether I learned my behaviors from her, I don't know. I do know that none of my seven siblings has these particular traits, and she raised them as well.

What are the traits? I dismiss my pain; my first level of defense is to ignore it; second is to take an aspirin (or Aleve, usually). And then to ignore it. I take on more than I can handle, and then proceed to get it done (this ability has disintegrated over time, much to my dismay). I set high standards for myself, and don't really grasp the notion that doing less than my best is sometimes acceptable. I also don't grasp the notion that sometimes my best is less than perfection. I attribute my failures to not having worked hard enough, or long enough.

By themselves, I don't know that these traits would necessarily even be that bad. The problem is, there are more, less pleasant traits.

I get frustrated with other people's "laziness," and since I am a workaholic, anything less seems like sloth. I am more inclined to intellectualize than to empathize. I tend to think critique is better than praise (as in, taking the time to analyze how something was done, and figure out how it could be done better, rather than just saying, "Oh, good job."). And, given my high expectations for myself, I suppose it makes sense that it's incredibly difficult for me to ask for, or to accept help (but, because I'm only human, when I get overwhelmed, I need help. So then I feel angry and resentful that people aren't helping me.)

Worse, I notice more and more often how not just I, but quite a few of the other parts as well, am really classist. How I could have picked up that level of classism while growing up as poor as we were, I don't know. Well, okay, logic says that internalized oppressions tend to be more intense anyhow. But for all my knowledge of how class works, and all my beliefs, overall, that classism is bad, I still have a visceral dislike of people who display the behaviors associated with a particular class bracket (it cuts across race and gender).

Some people can look at an abusive parent and say, "I would NEVER do that. I COULD never do that." I look at my mother, and think, "I can see how she did that. I can see the factors that would put me into the position where I might do the same things."

I'm not saying she did the right things. Heck, even when I was a teenager, I didn't say that. One time, she asked me whether I thought she was a good mother. I responded that I thought she was a good person but not necessarily a good mother. Obviously, this was not the right answer.

And, honestly, I can see almost as many good things in her parenting as bad.

I sometimes wonder whether my ability to see where her behavior came from means I wasn't "really" abused. But you know what? Just because I can explain what happened, and because I can see she was not evil or malicious, doesn't mean I didn't get hurt.

Why was she physically abusive? First, there was the fact that she believed physical discipline was an appropriate tool. Ironically, for all her vociferous support of it, when she was parenting with enough resources, she didn't tend to use physical discipline. But she could justify its use, because she did believe it was okay.

She was abusive because she got overwhelmed. She had taken on too much, and didn't have appropriate sources of support. She lashed out because she had no other outlets. And what's even worse was, I know she looked for support. When I was a kid, her apparent choices for a partner were either my abusive, alcoholic stepfather, or no one at all. When she went to her church for advice, or her family, they told her she should find a way to support him so he didn't "have to" drink. When she went to a therapist, after leaving him, the therapist's response to hearing her lay out her situation was, "I have no idea how you can handle all of that." And left it at that.

So she had no support. She was overwhelmed. And so she would reach her boiling point and, inevitably, one of us kids would push her over the edge. She didn't know how to take care of her own emotional needs. She didn't know how to step back, or insist on receiving support. But she knew how to erupt.

I can even see how my mother could be emotionally incestuous with each oldest child in turn. She was lonely, overwhelmed, had no one to turn to. And then, here is this person who can listen, offer support, stand in for a partner.

I'm not saying it was right. I'm saying I can empathize.

But, I am my mother's daughter, and not my mother. I did not have my first child when I was eighteen. I did not have eight children by the time I was thirty-eight (given that I'm almost 33, with no children as yet, I think I can say this with confidence).

Instead of having babies, I went to college. Instead of being married three times, I spent years in therapy working through my childhood. Instead of behaving as though what I experienced wasn't abuse, I have accepted that people I love, and who love me, could do horrible things at the same time. I have worked on healing, and I have taken time to learn new ways to live. I may not be perfect, but I am a work in progress.

So I'll close with this quotation from an old Nike ad:

You do not have to be
your mother unless she is
who you want to be. You do not have
to be your mother's mother, or your
mother's mother's mother, or even
your grandmother's mother on your
father's side. You may inherit their
chins or their hips or their eyes, but
you are not destined to become the
women who came before you, you are
not destined to live their lives. So if
you inherit something, inherit their
strength. If you inherit something,
inherit their resilience. Because the only
person you are destined to become is
the person you decide to be.

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