Sunshine and Shadows Life with DID

The Traveling Red Dress or Blue Stone

2012-01-28T18:06:00.001-07:00

I've been following Jenny Lawson's blog - the bloggess and came across this post: the traveling red dress. Although I don't want a red dress - partly because I wear red a lot already, so I don't feel I need one - I deny my alters many things that they want because they are impracticable. In this post Jenny says, "I want to be shocking and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent, and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply 'not sensible'."

Which brings us to my alter Laura. You meet Laura whenever you read my blog. She does most of the writing. If you have eaten a good meal at my house, you have eaten her cooking. She is also responsible for the cleaning of my house, which may or may not get done if she isn't out. She is responsible for keeping our system running smoothly because she is very organized. You have not however, ever spoken to Laura because she doesn't talk. Laura is gentle and her favorite color is not the favorite color of any other one of my alters. She loves blue - soft blue - lightest blue - nearly white, a color I never wear.

She saw a necklace she wanted, but I immediately shut her down, saying, "But we don't have anything to wear it with. There is no point in getting it." Because Laura isn't verbal, she gets shut down a lot. She normally quietly retreats to the background.

But this time, she was empowered by the words of Jenny Lawson, and reminded me that although it doesn't match anything in the closet, it matches her. So I ordered the necklace for her. It came with earrings that she won't wear because although my ears are pierced, hers are not.

When the necklace arrived, Laura was so excited. She quickly put it on and lovingly caressed it. She felt loved and cared about by the system because although no one else may ever see the necklace, she got to wear it and touch it and feel loved.

Shadow comes out sometimes when I am shopping, and she buys odd, bright little treasures that appeal to her. Grownup and Glory do all the clothing shopping which is why nearly everything in our closet is red or green. Louisa is able to snag a few things in peach, but this annoys Grownup and Glory, but Laura, being quiet and helpful, never until now has bought anything for herself.

Now if I could just convince my husband to spend thousands of dollars to put all the things I've pinned on pinterest into our home. While spending thousands to upgrade our home into a DIDer's fantasy land isn't sensible, a small inexpensive necklace is. And Laura deserves the happiness it brings her. After all, she keeps the system running smoothly.

EEG and the DID Brain

2012-01-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

I want to have an EEG just to see what happens in my brain when some of my alters are out. I've read that a DID brain reacts differently depending on the alter, and this will show up on an EEG. I wish there was a way to have one without having my name attached to it or it attached to my medical records. It would be interesting to see which parts of my brain are controlled by my different alters.

Maybe someday, I'll get to have this done, and my alters will feel validated.

Have any of my readers who are DID had an EEG? If so, what did you discover?

I'm Okay

2012-01-14T19:53:00.000-07:00

No really, I am okay. When I was first diagnosed with DID, I was scared to death of what that meant for me and my life, but now three years later, I am okay. I am almost always co-conscious which is good because that means I don't lose time as much as I used to. I have alters that I prefer to be than others, but all of my alters play a role in keeping me healthy. DID is not as scary as it once was now that I know it isn't what Hollywood portrays it to be. I am thankful for that knowledge. I am thankful that DID was just a very creative way for me as little girl to survive abuse and still thrive. I am okay.

On another subject I saw a promo for a new movie called Unitard. I am annoyed by the name of this movie. In the clip, the actors said, "It is the combination of unity and, well, you know 'tard." I try hard to teach my student not to use the "R" word, and now popular culture makes it seem okay. This frustrates me. The trailer for this movie was painful to watch - it looks incredibly poorly written. I hope it tanks and that not many of my students will watch it. Yuck and boo to the producers who think the R word is funny.

Dave Hingsburger wrote a wonderful piece titled People Who "Are" the R Word. Check it out if you have a few minutes.

Psychopath?

2012-01-05T22:23:00.001-07:00

I wasn't sure what to write about until I came across this article online tonight. The title really bothered, and the article also bothers me.

First of all I don't think it is funny or professional to make fun of mental illness. I also think that the boys this woman works with have a right to privacy - a right to not be poked fun of in the media.

The article is titled: "My Story: Learning to love 'my little psychopaths'" by Shelby Scoffield. Of course 'my little psychopaths' is in quotes, so of course we can see that she doesn't really mean it. She is just joking, so it is allright - right? Are the boys she works with psychopaths in the true sense of the word? Possibly. However, that doesn't mean that giving them this label publicly is the right thing to do.

Definition of a psychopath:

Also called: sociopath a person afflicted with a personality disorder characterized by a tendency to commit antisocial and sometimes violent acts and a failure to feel guilt for such acts. Source: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/psychopath

I have met psychopaths. I would say that I probably lived with one while I was growing up. But it isn't a joke. Maybe I am just a bit sensitive because my own mental illness could cost me my job because people do not understand DID - they fear it. I do know that if I published stories of my students using their names and pictures in a way that violated FERPA laws, I would lose my job. I am shocked and saddened that this teacher did this.

***Edited to add: I see that the online news station changed the title of the story and took down the picture of the young men. I am glad, but I still think the story is awful. I can see that many of the comments express the same things I felt last night.

Happy New Year 2012

2012-01-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

I don't make New Year's resolutions because I don't keep New Year's resolutions. I do, however, choose one little word each year. We started this tradition last year, and because I liked it, I will do it again.

This year my word is "write." This means that I will attempt to write every day. I have started a novel and a memoir, so between those two things and my blogs, I will try to write every day.

Do you make resolutions or do you choose one little word?

Response to a Loving Mother

2011-12-31T01:49:00.001-07:00

A reader left a comment asking how she can better relate to her adult daughter who has DID. I am happy to answer for myself, but I know that every person who has DID has a system unique to them. I would appreciate any of my readers who have DID to respond to her questions in the comments section if you are comfortable doing so.

Q 1: How can people best relate to you?

A 1: I like to be treated the same way I was before I told my family members that I have DID. I don’t like people to bring DID up in casual conversation. I have alters who are not comfortable discussing DID. They don’t want to talk about it and get annoyed when it is brought up because they like to think that they are hidden. When they are asked about it, they can feel betrayed (by me). I am okay with those who know my diagnosis asking, “I have a question about DID; is it okay if I ask?” At that point if I feel safe, I can have an alter come forward who can talk about it. Sometimes it is scary to talk about it because I became DID as a defense mechanism. Talking about it can sometimes make me feel vulnerable - not always though - so just ask if you can ask.

Q 2: If we are talking – who am I really talking to especially when we are involved in a difficult or heated conversation?
A 2: My mother asked me this question once; she asked, “So who am I talking to right now?” I really hate this question because you are always talking to me. ‘Me’ being however is out. I don’t always think about who is out – the alter who is out is usually the one who needs to be out. Some people who are really close to me can tell who is out, but they don’t bring it to my attention. I only share traits of my alters with those I really trust. If they are observant, they can usually figure out who they are talking to.

I am curious about how others with DID feel about this question. Does it bug you to be asked who is out? It really bugs me.

Q 3: How can I protect you? How can I have your best interest when there may be multiple personalities?
A 3: I wish my mother would ask this question, but I haven’t shared my blog with her because I don’t always feel safe with her. You can’t really protect us, but you can do things to make yourself a safe person for your daughter. I need my mother to be honest with me, but she is not. I need my mother to stand up for what she professes to believe in, but she does not. I need my mother to not be a hypocrite, but she is a hypocrite.

My husband protects me by realizing when I am at my emotional limit. He knows when I need to rest. He knows when he needs to give me space. He makes me feel safe because he is honest, trustworthy, dependable, loving, gentle, and kind. He never makes me feel threatened. He doesn’t like to talk about my DID, but I am okay with that. He said, “It doesn’t really matter to me because I love all of you.” He does get confused at times when an alter is out who he is not as familiar with. He will say, “You are off today, aren’t you.” When he says that, it makes me smile all the way to my toes because it lets me know that he recognizes differences, but he loves me anyway.

I also think it is very important to honor your daughter’s wishes to not share her diagnosis with anyone. My mother told someone in front of me about my diagnosis; I was not happy with her because it was one more violation of trust. It upsets me because there is such a stigma associated with DID. I don’t want to lose my job or have people judge me unfairly. My brain created my alters to keep me safe and functioning. I function well in life, but I would never want people waiting for me to crack like a Hollywood portrayal of DID. I am quite stable.

Dear Reader,
Thank you for asking these questions. I can see that your heart is in the right place. You love your daughter and want to be there for her and to help her. Allow her to talk with you as she needs to, but remember she is still your daughter; she just has a brain that has created other parts to help her deal with emotional and physical pain. She is not her diagnosis – please remember that. She is your daughter who happens to have DID.

This diagnosis is very scary at first. At this point in my healing, I am okay with it. There are times when it is an annoyance, and there are times when it is scary, but it can even be helpful at times (like a superpower). J

Please feel free to ask any questions you have,

Sunshine

Christmas Aftermath

2011-12-28T15:47:00.001-07:00

For years after my parents divorced, I struggled through my birthday and Christmas. We (a general we, not just me and my system) are brought up with Hollywood's idea of the Christmas/Birthday miracle. You know the one where the main character struggles through some horrible problem - death, abuse, homelessness, hunger, poverty, etc. - but on the birthday or on Christmas day, the miracle happens and the problem is overcome. Abusive parents become humble and loving. Alcoholic parents or caretakers finally see the light and love the child enough to change. Unemployed parents find the golden job that will change the lives of the entire family. The homeless parent will find a story book home in a story book neighborhood, and all will be well. I approached each birthday and Christmas with hope springing eternal, only to have that hope slapped down good and proper by the end of the day.

On each birthday, I longed for my father to call and say, "Happy Birthday." Of course if he had remembered to call, he would have called me unspeakable names and forgotten it was actually my birthday, but at least he would have called. I could have pretended that some part of his sub-conscious mind knew it was indeed my day. But he never called, and by the time I was 12, I hated my birthday with a passion.

The year I turned 13, I thought for sure he would call. I was now a teenager, he had to remember. Right? The day wore on and no call came. I had friends over, and we went to the high school to play Dare Base. By the time we began walking home, I was in tears. Why couldn't he remember my birthday? I was so sad. My friends asked me what was wrong, but I couldn't put it into words for them. I was just sad, so we sang, "It's My Party and I'll Cry if I want to," all the way home - which helped. :)

Christmas came a few months later with all those same feelings. Certainly Dad would grow up this year. He would see how much he loved us. We would matter, and he would clean up his act and come see us. But Christmas came without any sign of a decent father - or even any sign of my indecent one. :) This went on year after year until one year I met a man who healed my birthday and Christmas issues.

Although I didn't end up marrying this man, he was sent to help in my healing process. When my birthday rolled around, he wanted to make a big deal of it. I told him, "No, I don't like my birthday." I went to class that night, so that he couldn't do anything for my birthday. If I didn’t have any expectations, I couldn't be disappointed. Halfway through class, he showed up with a double layer full sheet cake ablaze with 100 candles. Oh my word, I could hardly believe it. When I told him I was not 100, he said, "Yes, but didn't it look so cool with all those candles?" He showed me how to enjoy the moment with little things like 100 flaming birthday candles. Plus, I knew what he did, he did for me. He made me feel like I mattered.

He did the same type of things for Christmas, and I made a decision right then and there that from now on, I was reclaiming my birthday and Christmas. I would enjoy the small joys of each day and no longer allow my father to ruin them. I can say that for the last 14 years, I have enjoyed both days.

Christmas this year was peaceful and joyful. I am thankful for the people that Heavenly Father brings into my life to help with my healing process. I pray that all of you who read my blog had a very Merry Christmas!

I Discovered Pinterest - and it is Fun!

2011-12-16T22:57:00.000-07:00

I wondered what all the hype was about Pinterest. Now I know. Pinterest is fun. Pinterest helps a person organize the coolness that is the internet. If I like something, I can find it again.

For a person with DID or multiples, it also can be used as a place to organize alters and all the stuff that interests them. Being able to find pictures of what my alters enjoy, brings me peace. It allows me to take what I see in my head and say, "This is what I was thinking. Now my family and friends (those who know I have DID) can get to know all of me a little bit better.

I don't know if all of my alters will play on Pinterest, but a few have already found things to share.

Sunshine's Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/sunshineshadows/

Never Still Applies

2011-12-11T20:26:00.000-07:00

Today I want to respond to a comment that was left on this post. I certainly do not want to upset the visitor who left this comment because I appreciate comments, so I almost didn’t respond, but after thinking about this for several days, I decided that I need to (for own healing) address this comment. To my vistor in question, "I'm sorry if I misread your comment."

The comment: “I do want to argue against some of your post. You know better than I, probably, that 'never' and 'always' only work halfway with multis. And with someone who is multiple because of sexual abuse as a child, yes, a child alter shouldn't, in most cases, be allowed to have sex.

But sex is a healing activity, as well. Sometimes a child alter can find that sex is a fun game and not scary, and this is healing - if approached with a partner that is careful and caring.”

I agree that the word “never” and “always” only work halfway with those of us with DID; however, I stand by my original post that a child, even when that child resides in the body of an adult, should never be subjected to sex. Sex is not a fun game for a child and it is scary.

Many victims of child sexual abuse were abused by family members or trusted family friends. Fathers, brothers, uncles, mothers, sisters, aunts, grandfathers, grandmothers, etc. – were the very ones who perpetrated the abuse. These trusted people used the love of a child to gain access to the child – to groom the child into silence. A father said, “I do this because I love you so much.”

A trusted family friend said, “This is our special secret,” or “You’re my favorite,” or "Do you want to play a fun game?"

And these words create confusion in the child. Sometimes the child’s body responds to the abuse in a way that makes the child feel pleasure which further confuses the child and make the child feel guilty for the actions of the perpetrator.

These so called “partners” of the abused child are "careful and caring" (in their own minds), yet the abuse is still there, it is still going on, and the damage to the child is still there – even if the perpetrator left no physical bruises or scars. The emotional damage will always be there. The child may heal after years of therapy, but often a trigger can bring it all to the surface again making them feel that there is no safe person they can trust.

I agree that sex can be a healing activity when approached with a caring, gentle partner. But the sex must be between two consenting adults.

I have seen the destruction in a person who as an adult was subjected to sex while a child alter was out. Any person who is in a sexual relationship with an adult survivor of child sexual abuse, should bloody well be adult enough to back off when a child alter is out. Otherwise we head down that slippery slope that perpetraters love so much. Their views on sex allow them to justify the abuse. They can say, "She wanted it. She came on to me," when all the child in question did was give them an innocent hug or sit on their lap. I really hate perpetraters, and I could seriously put a bullet in their heads (all of them) and feel no remorse.

I stand by my statement that children should never be subjected to sex – even when the child in question resides in an adult body.

Sonar

2011-11-27T21:07:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went in to check on my little boy before I went to bed. I do this every night because I am paranoid like that. I never turn a light on because I can maneuver in the dark quite well. I always check to make sure he is breathing and not wheezing, he is covered, and if he is covered, I check to make sure he is not too hot. You too can do this by touching your child’s neck. If they are sweating, they are too hot.

After I was assured that he was indeed breathing and comfortable, I turned and walked straight into the wall. I hit so hard that my head nearly made contact with the wall. As it was, I was able to stop the forward momentum of my head just an instant before it would have cracked against the wall. My chest and shoulder hurt, and my neck really hurt from the jarring of keeping my large head uninjured.

My child awoke with a start because when an adult slams into the wall, it is noisy. He said, “Mom, what are you doing?”

“Just checking on you,” I said as I walked back over to give him another kiss goodnight.

Normally, I do really well in the dark. I like the dark. It doesn’t scare me, but I do have alters that cannot walk around in the dark. When they are out, I am really careful, so that I don’t run into walls or fall down stairs, but this time the switch must have been as soon as I turned away from my child.

It reminded me of another time I literally bit it when walking in the dark. Many years ago – before I even I knew I had others, I turned off the lights and tried to head up the stairs to bed. Imagine my surprise when my face met the corner of the wall with my body going full speed ahead. I hit my teeth so hard they hurt, and worse, I had a piece of something that felt like a broken front tooth in my mouth. I hurried into the bathroom to check out the damage and had to laugh when I realized the “tooth” was really a piece plaster that I had eaten. The next day the dentist took an x-ray to make sure I hadn’t damaged the roots, and I walked around with a fat lip for week, but all was well – except for the corner of the wall.

Last night after slamming into the wall, I refused to turn on any lights even when I went in to wash my face and brush my teeth. I had to prove to myself that I could indeed maneuver in the dark. I did fine, no bumps, no bruises, and no using Desitin instead of toothpaste (I’ve done that in the daylight before – it is really yucky). I still have sonar abilities – at least parts of me do.

Goodbye Uncle Lee

2011-11-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

My uncle, who I wrote about here, died this week. Although I haven’t seen him for several years, I will always appreciate the tender kindnesses he showed us when we were little. One time when we had been without food for a while, he came into town to see us. He brought a jar of peaches with him, and we practically inhaled it.

He asked, “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. I didn’t want to appear greedy, but of course I was hungry. He took us all out and bought us hamburgers. He believed that if a child was being naughty, the child needed sleep, food, or attention. If you gave the child what he/she needed, the child would be content.

Thank you, Uncle Lee, for your gentle kindness.

Thank you to a dear teacher. . .

2011-11-12T18:01:00.000-07:00

Before Ientered my favorite teacher’s fifth grade classroom, I was afraid of her. I’d heard from other students that she was strict and scary. I prayed I wouldn’t be assigned to her room, but when class lists came out, my name was near the top of her list. I was scared.

On the first day of school, I went in expecting the worst, but I discovered that while she didn’t put up with any nonsense, she was fair. I knew what to expect in her classroom. She didn’t play favorites – everyone was expected to do their best and to treat others kindly.

This was the hardest year of my school life. Because of my family background, I became a target for the mean girls. Recess became a nightmare of teasing and taunting. However, as I entered her room, the teasing stopped because she wouldn’t have tolerated it. I felt safe. She didn’t judge me based on who my parents were. She loved me. I knew she loved me, and knowing this made each day a little more bearable. Recess was a time of extreme sadness, loneliness, and depression, but the days in her room were pleasant. I don’t remember what I learned that year, but I remember that she made me feel important.

I often wonder what she thought when I took the herbal supplements mom sent with me at lunch time. Now that I am teacher, I wonder what she thought about my home life. I wonder if she prayed for me. I bet she did. I bet she prayed I would find friendship. I bet she prayed that other children would be kind to me. It was hard having my one good friend in a different classroom that year. But part way through the year, another girl with a crazy home life moved in, so of course we became friends and the taunting at recess was easier to take.

She couldn’t have known how truly troubled I was. She didn’t know that I wished for death during recess or that I wished for the courage to drown myself in the creek that flowed next to our school. She probably just tried to help me as best she could. I wish I could tell her that her best was enough.

I didn’t see her for many years after I left that school. I went to her viewing after she died. She still looked the same – beautiful. Teachers often don’t know the impact they make on a child. I am thankful God blessed me with this great teacher. I am glad he said, “No,” to my prayer and put me on her list. She blessed my life in ways she will never know.

Morningside

2011-11-02T20:18:00.000-06:00

I found a Neil Diamond CD at a yard sale a few weeks ago - double set - for only 50 cents. One of the songs on the CD made me kind of sad. It is called Morningside. It is a song he wrote after his grandparents died - alone.

Lyrics: The words in red are my thoughts.
Written by: Neil Diamond

Morningside
The old man died
And no one cried
They simply turned away
I know this is what will happen when my father dies, and while I am not sad that he will die, I do think it is sad for anyone to die alone - even if that is what they have earned by how they have treated those around them.

And when he died
He left a table made of nails and pride
And with his hands he carved these words inside
"for my children"
My father has filled our lives with nails of one type or another - they symbolize all the pain he has inflicted on his children. He is proud, too proud to admit he has done anything wrong. Everything is always someone else's fault. And yet, I think of the things he built with his hands: a desk, a dollhouse, planes (that terrorized his little girls), and all the other things he repaired. The man can fix anything because he is brilliant.

Morning light
Morning bright
I spent the night
With dreams that make you weep
Morning time
Wash away the sadness from these eyes of mine
For I recall the words the old man signed
"for my children"
The dreams of those of us who carry the burden of abuse, would truly make you weep. They are dreams that sometimes make us feel like we are coming up for air when we awake shaking and sweating. I am thankful that I haven't had a truly bad dream for quite a while. It was nice when I could confront my father in my dreams and tell him that he could no longer hurt me. I held him by the throat and said, "No, you cannot call me because you don't respect boundaries!"

I am always thankful when the morning is able to dispell the hurt and depression of the day or sometimes days and weeks of sorrow that have come before it.

In times past, Dad was proud of my accomplishments, but after I testified against him, he no longer considered me his daughter. I am okay with that because it means the phone calls laden with guilt also stopped. He could no longer attempt to manipulate me.

And the legs were shaped with his hands
And the top made of oaken wood
And the children sat around this table
Touched with their laughter
Ah, and that was good
By his hand and his choices, he created the pain that all of his children carry, yet we are strong, and let me tell you, we laugh. The bond that was created by his abuse is strong. We (my sisters and I) survived a path that made us who we are, and while sometimes the pain overwhelms us, our love and connection is amazing. We survived and thrived!

Morningside
An old man died
And no one cried
He surely died alone
And truth is sad
For not a child would claim the gift he had
The words he carved became his epitaph
"for my children"
My father's children have chosen to turn away from the gift he gave because his gift was not good. We have chosen to be good parents, productive members of society, and loving people. We found our own gift because his gift would have doomed us.

I still wish I could have a good father instead of a rabid father. At times, my heart aches for the little boy my grandmother so loved. I wish he could have made choices that would have helped us all. However, I know my Heavenly Father loves me. I have amazing siblings that have seen me though so much. I also have my own children and husband who enrich my life, so I choose the gifts of love they bring to my life and gladly accept them all.

Sleeping Like a Baby

2011-10-29T22:55:00.001-06:00

I discovered a great way to get to sleep last night. Usually when I go to bed at night, I think about what I still need to do at school and how I can help all my students. I think about my kids and my husband. I think about all the things I need to do at home, and as I think of all of these things, the clock marching into the early morning hours. But last night I was thinking about one of my alters – Joy. I was wondering what kind of symbol would represent her because for me that is a normal thing. Doesn't everyone do that at night - think about symbols? I thought I'd visit with her, but she was asleep as most babies are at midnight (if they are low maintenance babies).

Joy is a toddler, and as her name implies, she is a happy little thing. I could see her sleeping – peacefully sleeping and having pleasant dreams if she was dreaming at all because that is what Joy does – enjoys every aspect of life. She looked so peaceful and angelic with her sparse, silky blond hair falling across her forehead. She was the picture of relaxation with her little hands folded up against her chubby cheek.

So, I tuned right into Joy, let her come forward, and fell asleep before I knew it. I slept better than I have for a long time. I awoke early, refreshed, and ready to face the day. Sleeping like a baby (one who sleeps through the night – not one of those high maintenance babies that wake up all night to eat) is a wonderful experience.

I think I’ll have Joy come out every night – unless the spouse is feeling snuggly because that would just be wrong on every level.

Worry #1,201

2011-10-20T00:29:00.000-06:00

My latest worry now that I am getting older is: How does dementia interact with DID?

If at some point I get Alzheimer’s, senility, or dementia as I age, how will it manifest?

Will those close to me blame my forgetfulness on DID? Will I blame my forgetfulness on DID?

If my mind regresses, will the littles be out all the time? Will they remember what happened to us, or will they be in a state of denial? If they remember everything, I really don’t want to be there. I remember enough to know it was bad. I don’t need to know everything.

If I get dementia, will I still have DID, or will I just no longer care that I have DID? Will I leave little piles of diced cheddar cheese all over the house like my sweet elderly neighbor use to? I wonder why she did that. Maybe she had little mice friends. All I know is that she wouldn’t let me clean it up when I would go over to help her. She would replace the diced cheese piles on a regular basis, so they never got too nasty. It was kind of sweet to think of little borrowers finding food treasure throughout her house – or maybe that was my littles way of thinking at the time. I thought it was rather charming, so when I get older if I get dementia, please don’t move my cheese.

Has any research been done on this issue? I think I better find out. My grandfather struggled with senility. One time when I hugged him, he looked so scared. He didn't have any idea who I was. I felt so bad because I had been so close to him. I was sad that he was locked in his mind and unable to process who I was.

I really hope that someday soon (although I know it won’t be) doctors will understand the human brain enough to prevent or cure Alzheimer’s, senility, and dementia. Until then, this will remain worry number 1,201.

Is it DID or is it Normal?

2011-09-18T16:39:00.000-06:00

At times I wonder if what I experience is a symptom of DID or if it is just part of the human experience. For example: over the summer, I wrote some lesson plans, but now that I am back in school and using those lesson plans, there is content in them that I can’t for the life of me figure out how it connects or the reasoning behind it. Luckily, they are Word files, so I alter them to work.

I struggle with depression this time of year; not as much as I used to, but I still struggle. I feel overwhelmed by everything I need to do as a teacher. I am behind on my grading because other parts are fighting for face time – or is this just part of the human experience in the world of a teacher? Do other teachers fight to keep a balance or do they just let teaching take over during the school year?

I am back in teacher mode, and that isn’t necessarily a good thing for my family life. For now, I’ve been able to slip out of teacher mode on the weekends – not entirely, but more so than last year. I know my husband doesn’t really like it when I am in teacher mode, and I don’t blame him because the alter that handles teaching doesn’t really want a husband. I find myself struggling to get to know my students this year because I will go to all the effort of building relationships with them, and they will leave in June. Next August, I’ll have to get to know 210 new students again. Is that a normal feeling for a teacher without DID – or am I having attachment issues? Please don’t feel that I won’t get to know my students – it is impossible not to get attached to them. So far this year, the students have been really great – even the ones that are a bit difficult have cute personalities.

I really like being a teacher when I am in the classroom, but when I am home, I feel resentful of the time it takes to do the job right. I still want to play, cook, garden, scrapbook, read, and spend time with my children, grandchildren, and husband. I need to be alone and recharge at times, and nine months seems like a long time before I can have that balance again. My system functions best when I am able to accommodate everyone inside – during the school year it seems impossible for that to happen. Sometimes I feel that I am doing a juggling act; unfortunately, I'm not very good at juggling.

Back to School

2011-08-29T19:46:00.001-06:00

School has started. I am happy and a bit sad to be back in school. When my husband said, “You are back in teacher mode,” it made me sad because I know there are other parts of me that he likes so much better. I also feel sad for the alters whose time in front will now be limited. Last night before I fell asleep, I thought, “I have to get as much done at school as possible, so I can still have time for the others when I get home, yet as I left school today, I knew that I had too much work to do at home tonight for anyone else but the teacher to be out. I like getting to know my students. So far, I think I have a pretty good group of students – all 205 of them – a few less than last year.

The last month has been a bit crazy. I learned that no one should have to bury a child, and that an accident can only be made light of if all the participants are able to walk away from the crash. When no one walks away, the results are beyond devastating. I learned that next summer I need to plan my funeral so that my family doesn’t have to do so when they are in the middle of their grief. I learned more than I even want to know about planning a funeral. I learned that there are angels around us who are willing to reach out and help a neighbor/friend in their time of need. I love that part.

I learned that some people will do everything in their power to hold onto pain and bitterness, and they will strike out at whoever is handy – even if that isn’t the person they are really mad at. I learned that some people hurt others to avoid having to take responsibility for their own actions. I learned that it is pretty pointless to poison (with bitterness) yourself in hopes that it will hurt someone else.

I learned that seeing a child marry the person of their dreams is a wonderful thing. I love seeing hope and joy brought back into my child’s life by an amazing person. I am thankful that my child was married and not buried, but I am sad for my friend whose child was buried.

I learned that I still really like all of my children. They are pretty awesome people. I love my children, but it is even better to like who they are.

I learned that I can’t fix everything or everyone, but I can give it to God, and he will pick up the slack and bring peace to my heart and soul.

Life is good even if it is a bit chaotic.

Twenty Four Days and Life in General

2011-07-31T16:54:00.000-06:00

In twenty four days, I will be back on the clock at school. Our district gives us three paid days to set up our classroom and get everything ready for the new school year. Three days. It isn’t enough time, but it is better than nothing. Today for the first time since school got out, I am excited at the thought of a new school year. Today, I glanced at the apple bell I found at a yard sale a few weeks ago, and I felt excited.

Right now it is raining – a beautiful summer rain with thunder and lightning. I enjoy the view from my window as the rain washes the dust off the windows and the flowers. I love the power in a summer storm.

Today, my husband I watched “Chopped” on Food Network. One of the judges said to one contestant, “This dish is so polished, it is like someone else cooked it compared to what you made in the first round” (or something to that effect).

I looked at my husband and said, “Maybe it was someone else; maybe he has DID.” My husband always looks at me really oddly when I bring up DID. I think he likes to pretend that I am normal, and that he pretends it so well that he forgets I have DID. That or I have a system that functions really well. I think he forgets what it can be like when school starts. He did after all say at the end of the year, “As soon as the year ends, you need to change back to wife and mother mode” (or something to that effect).

I still struggle with alters who come out at night. Because the body is sleeping, they can’t really do much. It makes me feel like I have dementia. The alters struggle to think and do, and they can’t really do either with a sleeping body. They just need to make sure to come out in the day because sleep is necessary.

After two months off of school, I am feeling quite balanced. I hope to get enough done before the year begins to keep that balance after school starts. I also hope I get a student aid to help with the work load. I had one second semester, and it was very helpful.

I had a brief loss of time last week. I was driving home and couldn’t for the life of me place where I was. I knew I was headed home, but for a brief moment no landmarks looked familiar. I took a breath, told myself to focus, and looked for a street sign. Reading the street sign meant nothing to me. I still couldn’t place where I was, but then I was back and knew where I was. I was still on my way home. I hadn’t deviated from my path at all; I just had a different alter come out who wasn’t there when the drive home began.

All in all, life with DID is okay. It is what I have to work with. Some days I love it, and other days it scares me a bit, but in the grand scheme, I’ll take what I’m used to and continue to make progress with co-consciousness. I don’t want any of my parts to go away. I love them all for helping me survive a dangerous childhood with my sanity intact. Some may say that having DID means my sanity isn’t intact, but I disagree. I will continue to believe that it is a way of using more of my brain now that I have access to everyone.

The Color of Paint

2011-06-25T22:23:00.002-06:00

Paint Colors

Ask me what my favorite color is and the answer will depend on who is out at the time. I usually answer that I like all colors. I say that it would be like choosing a favorite child or a favorite book. When pressed, I will say green or red – again it depends on who is out.

My husband and I struggle to agree on paint colors. He would like the entire house to be the same color throughout. I, on the other hand, would like to decorate each room to please the alter who is present most often in that room.

He doesn’t understand this. He thinks having each room a different color makes the house look cheap. I said, “Remember, you are dealing with someone who is not always the same person.” He still doesn’t get it, but I love him anyway.

I painted the guest room a couple of years ago – a lovely gold color. He didn’t like it at first but it grew on him. When we moved the office into the bedroom next door to the guest room, he painted the office the same color only one shade lighter. While I like the color in the guest room because it looks rich, I hate in the office because Laura – the writer – the alter who is out when I am in the office doesn’t like it. She would like this room to be a lovely shade of robin egg blue. I know he is not going to go for that. I may have to paint it when he is out of town and ask for forgiveness when he gets back.

I love the paint in the toy room. It is called pecan. It is tan with a hint of red. I think it is warm and cozy, and it makes me feel safe. My husband hates it – with a passion. He wants to paint over it. I am holding out because it appeals to Cat – her safe place is a house in a tree with all the colors of nature. My 3D children also love the color, so for now it will stay.

Our 3D child who still lives at home has his room painted his favorite color. I let him choose because I think that is the right thing to do. My husband said, “Every room is a different color; we can’t keep doing this.” So we picked a color we can agree on for the rest of the house. I went to the paint store and found several lighter colors (he likes light colors) that I could live with. He chose the one that is the same color as the toy room only about four or five shades lighter. I don’t like it as much as the toy room, but I can live with it, he can live with it, and it matches the toy room, so we may not have to paint over it.

However, I still want to repaint the office robin egg blue. I also want my scrap room to be peach – the color of a peach that is bright and warm from the sun and drips juice when you bite into it. I want the accents in the room to be a deep blue. My husband may strangle me for making the house look cheap. Certainly if he accepts the fact that he married a person with alters, he can accept the fact that each alter has her own favorite color - or not.

Chicken Fajitas and Rhubarb Pie

2011-06-10T13:04:00.002-06:00

Chicken Fajitas and Rhubarb Pie

I don’t know that these two things go together, but it is what we had for dinner. They both taste pretty awesome.

Chicken Fajitas

Marinade
1 tablespoon corn starch
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon chicken soup mix (bullion)
1/4 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 clove minced garlic
1/3 cup water
2 tablespoons lemon juice

4 boneless, skinless chicken breast - cut into thin strips.

Combine all the dry ingredients for the marinade in a large zip-lock bag.

Add the wet ingredients and mix well.

Cut the chicken:

Put the chicken in bag. Pour marinade over the chicken. Refrigerate for several hours.

Filling
Marinated chicken breast strips
2 green or red bell peppers - cut into thin strips
1 large onion - cut into thin strips

For cooking:
2 tablespoons olive or grape seed oil
Heat the oil in frying pan. Add chicken, and cook for 5 minutes - stirring constantly.

Add the marinade, the onion and the peppers. Cook until vegetables are crisp, yet tender.

6 to 12 flour tortillas - any size
Salsa - fresh is best but canned will do
Sour Cream

Remove from heat and spoon into tortillas. Top with sour cream and salsa, roll and serve.

I didn't get pictures of the finished product because I forgot to do so before dinner, and our dinner guests practically inhaled the finished product - there was nothing left.

Rhubarb Pie

2 crust pastry for a nine inch pie
1 ½ cups sugar
2 tablespoons tapioca
6 tablespoons flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
5 cups rhubarb, cut into small pieces
2 tablespoons butter

Preheat oven to 350
Wash and cut the rhubarb:

Put into a large bowl.

Mix sugar, tapioca, flour, and salt and stir into the rhubarb.

Spread mixture onto pastry in pie tin. Dot with butter.

Top with pastry. Crimp edges. Cut vents in top dough for steam to escape.

Bake for 55 minutes (or more – crust will be golden and the filling will bubble when it is done). Serve warm – with vanilla ice cream.

I Finished My First Year!

2011-06-02T22:27:00.000-06:00

I survived my first year of teaching school. It has been a hard yet rewarding experience. I learned a lot about teaching, about students, and about myself.

I learned how to design assignments that take less time to grade but that more fully measure the objective I want the students to grasp.

I learned that I have to find ways to keep my system balanced. I have to make time on the weekends for other alters to have time on the outside.

I learned that while I can manage my classroom well, I struggle if I am in the halls during passing time, and being in a dance with over 1,000 students is beyond my limits – there is simply too much information for my system to handle with that many students.

I learned that the copy room is usually really busy the first thing Monday morning, but if I get there early enough, I can still get my copies made before the bell rings.

I learned that IEP meetings and questionnaires take a lot of time, but they help me understand my students better.

I learned that my system can handle teaching. I am thankful for a system that works well together. I am thankful we have become more and more co-conscious as time goes by.

One of our teachers had a melt-down this year – in front of a class full of students. The teacher was fired because of this mental break. It makes me sad that the medical community has not yet learned enough about the human brain to understand the mechanism behind mental illnesses and conditions. Someday I hope the brain will be better understood so that instead of being fired, people with mental illnesses can be treated and get well in a world that doesn’t brand them as crazy. I understand why this teacher was let go. I understand that this teacher could not be trusted in a room of students again. I wouldn’t want my child to be in a room with this teacher in his/her state of mind, but it still makes me sad because I know that there but for the grace of God go I. I am thankful for a system that functions well. They do their job so that I always appear “normal”. It is too bad this teacher didn’t have alters – sometimes I feel like it is a super power.

Disconnected

2011-05-03T19:24:00.000-06:00

There are times when I feel disconnected from my body - my brain is still thinking, but it is doing so separately from what my body is doing. I image it is much like my computer when I am running the virus checker - the computer is busy doing its thing, so it can't really do anything else very fast.

I'm sure my kids hate when they call me and my brain is off and wandering. I feel the thought process slows way down when I try to focus and concentrate on the conversation that is happening in the here and now.

I even feel this way sometimes when I am sleeping - the body is sleeping but the brain is off and running. It is just weird.

Does anyone else with DID ever feel this way?

Scrapbooking – the Key to Unlocking Emotions and Memories

2011-04-17T13:47:00.000-06:00

Yesterday as I was scrapbooking, I came across a picture of two of my sisters and I that was taken at my aunt’s house. Christmas is depicted by a tree dressed in red and silver balls and an assortment of other ornaments. A Santa lounges either near or on the tree, his white beard in sharp contrast to his red suit. On the hearth of the fireplace rest poinsettias and two large red dolls that could be angels or carolers. My sisters and my cousins sit with me on the hearth – with me in smack dab in the middle. I have a cousin on each side me and one of my sisters sit beside them.

Five girls who all look happy, well fed, well groomed (which for us didn’t happen often), and well dressed. I am between the ages of eight and ten. Our little sisters were not with us on this visit. They may not have been deemed worthy to keep the truth from our aunt. Perhaps Mom was worried they would tell about a new or impending baby.

I remember the conflict of emotions I felt when we visited our aunt. I loved her house; it seemed regal in cleanliness and décor, but at the same time, I felt anxious that I wouldn’t fit in there – that I wouldn’t be clean enough to be there, or maybe my hair wouldn’t be styled appropriately for Aunt’s house. I knew we were outclassed with every breath of my tattered esteem.

Of course we were warned before we left our home to keep the secrets of the cult. I spent the majority of the visit in a state of anxiety, worried I may slip and say something that would land us in a dreaded foster home. Foster homes were a constant threat. Horrible things happened to children in foster homes (or so we were told). The outside world couldn’t understand the cult. We were so far above the outside world living our higher laws that they couldn’t possibly understand – instead they would judge us and our mother would end up in jail. We had to keep the secrets of the cult.

I looked for proof of what my mother had told us about our aunt during our visit. The nice furniture was surely a sign that she loved money more than children. The fact that she only had two children was proof that she was selfish and cared more about parties and fun than being with her children. When we told Mom about Aunt’s nice car, we were told, “Which one of your sisters or brothers would you give up to have a car like that? Aren’t your siblings worth more than a car?” Of course this made me feel incredibly selfish and self-centered. I certainly didn’t want to be the kind of person who cared more about material things than spiritual things. All of this led to an emotional distance from my aunt. During our visit, although she was always kind and loving, I didn’t trust her because I truly believed she was selfish.

After our visit, during the ride home, I would run everything that happened though my head. “Did I say too much? Did I say anything that would hurt the cult? Am I going to cause something bad to happen to someone I love because of anything I said?” The other things that worried me were, “Did she notice my shoes were scratched up? Did she see the stain on my shirt? I should have worn the nicer underwear to Aunt’s house.” Not that she could see my underwear, but I worried that she could just sense when everything wasn’t perfect.

This picture makes me angry because it reminds me of the dysfunction of our life. We were made to distrust a perfectly good, kind woman. We were taught that she was shallow and selfish. We didn’t see her devotion to her children and husband because we rarely saw them. We were led to believe that having a nice home and possessions was despised by God and that somehow our polygamist lifestyle full of want and need was far better than her lifestyle of security, cleanliness, and safety.

Instead of distancing me from my aunt, Mom succeeded in causing a chasm in my relationship with her. I don’t trust my mother. I don’t trust her to be honest with me or to protect me. There are many things I am thankful for about my mom, but the chasm is there. I don’t know if she can feel it, but I feel it every day. I wish it wasn’t there, but the damage was done - damage that happened in order to protect a cult that I despise.

I am close to my aunt now and have been for many, many years. I am thankful for her positive example of how to parent and take care of a home. I am thankful for her example of what a strong woman looks like. I am saddened that the little girls in the picture were denied a close relationship with their cousins and family who lived outside of the cult. We needed them.

As I scrap this picture, I am torn with what I should title it - what should I say in the journaling? Do I make it a happy layout and vent here on my blog, or do I write the truth on the layout? I think I will make it a happy layout, print out this blog entry, and put it behind the layout. I can have it all. :)

New Recipe - well sort of - but not really

2011-03-29T19:07:00.000-06:00

In my quest to find the perfect frozen meal, my family has been subjected to many, many dinners that when we are lucky, taste okay. Since I have been working full time, I am often too tired to cook. Some days when I do cook, I find that whoever is out, doesn't know how to cook. One day after attempting to cook something that I can usually cook, my poor husband asked, "Did you forget how to cook?" He has been a good sport and will often (meaning most of the time) buy dinners that look easy to prepare.

I swear that most frozen meals have an ingredient called "bottom of the ice tray flavoring" because I can taste it. Often the first bite of a frozen dinner tastes good, but the after taste is definitely bottom of the ice tray along with some flavor that reminds me of plastic coated chemicals.

I bought a frozen meal a few months ago, but I have been too scared to try it. In my attempt to clean out the freezer, I made it a few nights ago. It smelled really good while it was cooking. The vegetables and the noodles were a bit freezer burned from being in the freezer so long, so I was doubtful it would taste as good as it smelled. When my son and husband smelled it, they both said, "What smells so good."

We blessed it (is it an abomination to bless frozen meals?) and sat down to eat. This dinner tasted like something from a restaurant - freezer burn and all. I went to the store the next day and bought two more of this meal and two of another (all by the same company). When I cooked the freshly bought meal that had no freezer burn, it tasted even better. I now crave this stuff. The vegetables look like they are fresh from the garden. The shrimp was divine. The noodles and the sauce were heaven.

What is this company that fails to flavor their frozen dinners like the norm? It is Contessa. The two meals I have tried are Shrimp Primavera (my favorite) and Sesame Chicken. They don't use MSG in their meals which is wonderful because MSG gives me migraines. The food looks beautiful and goes from the freezer to the table in eight minutes - eight minutes - I can't even check Facebook that quickly!

I don't get money from companies to sell their products because my blog is anonymous, but if you buy this product, it will hopefully keep Contessa in business which means I get to satisfy my craving for Shrimp Primavera whenever I want to. It takes less time and effort to cook this stuff than it does to drive to Wendy's and go to the drive through, plus it tastes a whole lot better.

My last bag had $3 worth of coupons; I think I need to go get some more.

Book Reports = IT

2011-03-21T21:50:00.000-06:00

Every quarter without fail, at least two or three of my students will write their book report about Dave Pelzer's book, A Child Called It. Most teachers wouldn't mind reading about his book, but I simply can not. I used to have his books in my "to read" stack, but I couldn't bring myself to read them. I gave them away.

I think that anytime a survivor of childhood abuse writes about their abuse and exposes their abusers, it is a positive step in their healing, but I can't bear to read about the details. I know first hand that abuse hurts and that it damages the soul and the body. I don't need to read the details of the abuse of another person to know this.

That being said, I wouldn't want anyone to think that these types of books should not be published. There is tremendous value in abuse memoirs. Books like Pelzer's help educate the public to be more aware of the possibility of abuse. He helps us help children who do not have a voice.

As a teacher, I don't tell my students they can't do reports on Pelzer's books, but I can't read those reports. I asked my husband if he wanted to grade them for me, but he declined, so instead I grade based on the first paragraph and call it done. Maybe next year, I'll ask my students not to write about Pelzer's books - or maybe I won't say a word. I don't want to discourage them from reading his work.

Happy Independence Day to my Daughter

2011-03-17T17:10:00.000-06:00

In honor of my daughter's courage, I want to wish her a happy Independence/St. Patrick's Day.
http://sunshineandshadowslifewithdid.blogspot.com/2010/07/st-patricks-day-independence-day-for-my.html
I love you sweetie! I am proud of you for taking back this day, getting a cake to celebrate, and realizing how much power you have. You are a warrior daughter!

Lowest Ebb

2011-03-06T15:25:00.002-07:00

As we approach the end of the school year, I find myself questioning if I want to be a full time teacher. I enjoy teaching. For the most part, I like my students. I enjoy the staff, administration, and other faculty members at our school. I even enjoy coming up with creative and fun ways to present information to my students. I don’t like the bureaucracy or the time a teacher must spend outside of school in order to do a good job as a teacher.

My students are pretty good kids. I have a few that no matter what I do to inspire them, they refuse to do their work. I wish I could inspire them. I keep trying, but they don’t want to take the time to work. They are capable, they do okay on their testing, but they don’t want to do the day to day work, so they fail. I had dreams as a new teacher of making sure every one of my students passed, but I can’t do their work for them. I have one or two students per class who just don’t want to do the work. I have a couple of students who work really hard and still don’t get it. Those students are being tested to see how we can better meet their needs.

I work with a stellar group of teachers at my school. For the most part, our teachers really care about the students. They spend countless hours on their own dime to help our students succeed. Our administration is helpful and supportive. I don’t think I could work in a better school. However, I am burned out. I am in dire need of summer to get here. I am sick of our state leaders passing new education laws each February without waiting to see if the laws they passed last year even worked. I am tired of state leaders who add in testing that doesn’t pertain to our core. This means I have to take time away from what my students will see on their CRT tests to teach them a skill that they aren’t yet ready to master. I am tired of bureaucracy interrupting my classroom. I say, “Just leave us and alone, so we can commence learning.” Many of the new laws are demoralizing to teachers. I wish they would come spend three months in a classroom and sit through parent teacher conferences before they could pass laws that dictate which hoops we need to jump through.

The other issue I have with being a full time teacher is that my alters, who are not present during school hours, have taken over in the evenings and on weekends. It is not possible to do everything a teacher needs to do during the school day, but my alters want nothing to do with anything school related after hours. I have to fight all weekend to get things done that need to be done. I also have a problem with alters being out at night after I go to bed. I can feel them, and my sleep is not restful.

I’ve been told that next year will be better, but next year we get a new core which means I need to realign all my lesson plans and create new lesson plans. I know that this is the point of the year when teachers are at their lowest ebb, so I hope things will get better. If any of you are teachers, please tell me I’ll get through this. I’ve been told by administration that I am a good teacher. I know I reach students. I generally love being the classroom, but damn, I am tired.

The Great Escape

2011-02-05T23:20:00.000-07:00

I watched a show today about Esther Reed, a woman who spent ten years living under the identities of other people. One of her motivations was the desire to get away from the pain of her own life. She simply became someone else.

I understand this motivation. At times, I too think about leaving my life behind and starting over somewhere else. Somewhere far away – somewhere no one knows me. Of course I don’t think about the logistics of doing such a thing beyond driving until the car runs out of gas because it is something I would never do. I just have the desire to leave the painful things in my memory behind. Unfortunately, our memories go with us, so running away from the pain would only mean I leave behind all the people in my life who I love.

What would be even better than running away and starting over, would be if our minds were more like computers. I could just delete the memories I no longer wish to remember.

Since I can’t delete memories or run away from them, I will just entertain the fantasy of being someone entirely different – a new face in a new town. I mentally reinvent a new story, and then when the logistics of escaping my life (things like needing a driver’s license, a social security card, and a birth certificate) surface, I’ll snap out of it and carry on with the life I truly love – my life and my wonderful children, husband, family, and friends.

Silent Footsteps Crowding Me

2010-12-30T00:46:00.001-07:00

No Sugar Tonight/ New Mother Nature

Ultimately, the meaning of music lyrics, like poetry, does not come from the author. The author can tell us his/her inspiration for the piece, yet the reader is the one who determines meaning based on our life experiences.

The following song is said to be inspired by Randy Bachman’s encounter with some men who he felt were threatening. As he crossed the street to get away from them, a woman pulled up in a car, and loudly confronted the men. She told one of the men that he wouldn’t get any sugar tonight.

The song is a mixture of two songs – each one is better with the other than when it stands alone.

I like this song because it represents the drug years of my childhood and the many hours I spent hiding from the bag of goodies and the bottle of wine. It also tells about the silent footsteps that often crowd me. That line alone makes me feel that someone else gets it – whatever it is.

A person in my life chose to present me with a book for Christmas about how important marijuana is to the future of our world. He attempted to talk me into his way of thinking – that marijuana should be legalized. He asked, “Will you at least read the book?”

“I can’t even get past the cover,” I responded as I tried to visually avoid the large green leafy cover.

“I’ll rip it off for you.”

Of course the next page was a black and white leaf with two old hippy men. “You don’t understand," I said. “My childhood was hell. My father was a drug dealer. He had us smoke pot from a water bong. He told us it was good for us. Everything that book represents is a huge trigger for me.”

“You don’t think anything could change your mind? You don’t think you could get past your childhood?” he asked.

I just chuckled because the other option was tears. He jumped up, put his arms around me, and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad. I didn’t realize.”

I thought I was so good at hiding the scared little girl, but for an instant, through the chuckle, he spotted her peering out from my eyes.

I told him that I couldn’t risk smelling pot. If it was legal, that would be a real obstacle. Even with pot being illegal, I’ve still encountered it more than I ever wanted to. The smell triggers horrible flashbacks for me. I quietly left the conversation and went to interact with my 3D child. Inside, the feelings of the scared little girl with the hard knot in her center remained, and I quietly wondered in what dimension a book that glorifies any drug would be considered a suitable gift to give to me. No child should be exposed to drugs the way we were.

The Guess Who

No Sugar Tonight/ New Mother Nature

Lonely feelin' deep inside
Find a corner where I can hide
Silent footsteps crowdin' me
Sudden darkness, but I can see

No sugar tonight in my coffee
No sugar tonight in my tea
No sugar to stand beside me
No sugar to run with me

In the silence of her mind
Quiet movements, well, I can find
Grabbin' for me with her eyes
Now I'm fallin' from her skies

No sugar tonight in my coffee
No sugar tonight in my tea
No sugar to stand beside me
No sugar to run with me

Jocko says yes and I believe him
When we talk about the things I say
She hasn't got the faith or the guts to leave him
When they're standin' in each other's way

You're driven back now to places you've been to
You're wonderin' what you're gonna find
You know you've been wrong but it won't be long
Before you leave 'em all far behind

'Cause it's the new Mother Nature takin' over
It's the new splendid lady come to call
It's the new Mother Nature takin' over
She's gettin' us all
She's gettin' us all

Jocko said no when I came back last time
It's lookin' like I lost a friend
No use callin' 'cause the sky is fallin'
And I'm gettin' pretty near the end
A smoke-filled room in a corner basement
The situation must be right
A bag o' goodies and a bottle o' wine
We're gonna get it on right tonight

'Cause it's the new Mother Nature takin' over
It's the new splendid lady come to call
It's the new Mother Nature takin' over
She's gettin' us all
She's gettin' us all

Lonely feelin'
(Jocko says yes and I believe him)
Deep inside
(When we talk about the things I say)
Find a corner
(She hasn't got the faith or the guts to leave him)
Where I can hide
(When they're standin' in each other's way)
Silent footsteps
(You're driven back now to places you've been to)
Crowdin' me
(You're wonderin' what you're gonna find)
Sudden darkness
(You know you've been wrong and it won't be long)
But I can see
(Before you leave 'em all far behind)

'Cause it's the new Mother Nature takin' over
It's the new splendid lady come to call
It's the new Mother Nature takin' over

She's gettin' us all

She's gettin' us all

Sometimes I feel that drugs crawl out like the vines of the bindweed and strangle so many of those I love.

The Gift

2010-12-17T21:49:00.000-07:00

This week at school, a student brought me a gift and laid it at my feet. He gave me the gift of his trust. He trusted me with his story of abuse. I knew this gift was coming because since the first of the school year, he has been dropping little hints of what was to come in his writing. He first trusted me enough to tell me that sometimes he felt like his brain was a series of little rooms and that sometimes he just went into another room in his head. He said, “It is hard to explain, but it happens.”

Inside, I thought, “You don’t need to explain. I understand perfectly.”

He asked a few weeks ago, “If I tell you about abuse that happened a long time ago, do you have to report it?”

“Has it been resolved?” I answered.

“Yes, the person went to jail.”

“No, I don’t have to report it.”

In his written assignment that day, instead of writing the sentences I asked for, he told his story of abuse. In one paragraph, he told me things that I already knew he had been through because in my classroom he is a chameleon.
I am not a doctor or a psychologist. My experiences with DID are only my own, a few other people I love, and a lot of personal research. I can’t diagnose this beautiful child, but he certainly displays many signs of DID.

When I gave his paragraph back to him, I said, “I’m sorry this happened to you. Are things good in your life now?”

“Yes, I am safe now.”

“I’m glad you are safe.”

“When the abuse happened, I did some things I regret,” he said.

“Have you ever talked to a counselor about those things?”

“Yes, but I always forget to tell them the things I am so ashamed of. Can I talk to you after class?” he asked.

“Of course you can.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he would tell me. I didn’t have to worry about it because by the time class ended, he had already forgotten and hurried to his next class.

I knew it was time to talk to the school counselor. I told him what I knew about this child’s situation. I asked if he could call the student in and let him know that he had a safe place to talk about things.

During class today, I pulled my student aside and told him that I had spoken to the counselor.

He said, “He called me in today.”

“How did it go? Did you feel okay talking to him?”

“Yes,” he answered and added, “I really opened up to him. I think he was surprised about all the things I told him. Thank you for having him talk to me.”

“I’m glad you have a place here where you can go and talk to someone. It helps to have someone tell you that you are reacting normally to a bad situation.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “when I am watching T.V. with my dad, my mind goes somewhere else. I come back and time has passed, but I don’t know where the time has gone.”

I listen, but I know this is his journey. I also know it would be completely unsafe and unwise to discuss my DID with a student.

He asked, “Do you know any good books about time travel.”

I can see his mind trying to figure out what is happening to him when he loses time. I hope the counselor knows about DID and will help him through this.

I help him find a book about time travel and send him to his next class. Inside, I feel sorrow that this beautiful child was put on this path by an adult who should have kept him safe but instead chose to abuse him. I feel rage that someone hurt this child – this child who brightens the room with every smile. I am thankful that our school district understands how important school counselors are.

I wish I had a few moments to cry or rage or break things, but thirty-three more children are walking through the door.

My rage scares me. I know that if I had a gun and the person who hurt this child in front of me, I could gladly pull the trigger and send him/her straight to hell, and I think, “Am I any better? If I could gladly kill an offender; am I any better?”

Names of Alters/Parts

2010-12-05T17:35:00.000-07:00

I recently had a friend ask me how I knew the names of my parts. Generally, they tell me who they are and what their purpose is.

The first part I became aware of was Cat. I didn’t like her name at all, but she insisted that Cat is her name, so her name stands.

I went through a time when most of my parts were pretty quiet, so I took an internal roll call. I found everyone and said, “I think that is everyone.”

Cat and Laura said, “Don’t forget Little One.”

They let me know that there was another part. They have done this twice: first when they introduced me to Joy, and second when they told me about Little One. When Little One became brave enough, she told me that her name is really Annie, but the other parts call her Little One.

I have only named one part. She was given horrible names by the people who abused our system. I could not let her keep names that were detrimental to her and to us. She had to agree on the name we chose. I called her Angel for a while, but she hated that name. She said it made her feel dead and that she was no angel. She had a sarcastic comment about every name I offered her. The name we agreed on was Glory. It really fits her.

I know that each person with DID has a system unique to them. Another person’s process of discovering their parts/alters may be completely different than my experience. Feel free to share your experience with discovering your alternate names with us in the comments section.

Words from My Father

2010-11-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve said before that it would be easier to deal with the bad memories if I didn’t have any good memories of my dad. The good memories make me wish that Dad could be okay, or worse, they make me doubt that things were really as bad as I remember. I appreciate having sisters who can verify my memories – it makes me feel not so crazy.

Today, I thought I’d share some of the memories and words of my dad that weren’t horrible.

When I get in the car with my kids I hear (in my head) my dad say, “Here we go with a ball on our nose – look at it twirling around.” This phrase makes me smile because whenever he said this, he was in a good mood.

“You can’t put old heads on young shoulders.” It took me until I was older to understand that he wasn’t being literal with this phrase. I had seen his pictures of dissected women, so this one troubled me until I realized he meant it figuratively.

“Get one for each hand,” said whenever a grandchild wanted a cookie, candy, or other goodie. He was a much better grandparent than he was a parent – that is until the day he made sexual comments to my thirteen year old daughter.

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” was his favorite saying when he was heavily involved in AA. I liked who he was during this time of his life. Another saying he had during his AA years (although crude) was, “If you have one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, you will piss all over today.”

During the time that I formed a functioning relationship with him, he said many kind things to me. He understood that I needed peace in my life. When things in my life would begin getting out of control, he would say, “Watch out; my Libra is going to balance the scale – anyone on the other side is going to get smacked with it as it comes into balance.” He often told me that I was a good mother and a good wife to my husband. He would quote scripture that backed up his opinion. Shortly before he hit bottom again and beat Grandma, he offered me the advice of staying close to my church because it would make me rich in all things. He didn’t believe in my church, but I think he could see it was good for me.

It is hard to have a parent who, although brilliant, makes choices that isolate him. I wish he could be what he is not. At times I feel sad for him and wonder if he is lonely. As Thanksgiving approaches, I think of him often. For many years during the time I had a relationship with him, he ate Thanksgiving with my family. He even taught me how to cook a turkey. He loved good food, and he always made me feel like I was the best cook in the world. There are still times that I mourn for the father I wish I had – the father that he sometimes presented himself as.

I am thankful for the good men in my life – my husband, my father-in-law, and my wonderful sons (including sons-in-law). Knowing them has been healing for me. They show me that there are men in the world who can function without being sexually inappropriate with their daughters and grandchildren. They are men who are stable in their moods and behaviors. They are dependable and kind. I need men like this in my life.

The Scream

2010-10-18T20:13:00.000-06:00

A reader (Cynthia) asked me how many alters I have. I have ten alters that I know of, so counting me (the host), there are eleven of us.

Today, when I went to pick up dinner (because Trina can’t cook her way out of a paper bag), Annie surfaced. Annie is a child of about four years old. She is slight with thin blond hair. She surfaces at times when I am in a car headed north. I’m not sure why that brings her out.

I know when she is near because she comes with the feeling of a tear tightened throat and the burn of tears right behind my eyes. The scream she contains lodges in my chest and feels that it will nearly choke me. Sometimes I wonder if I were to let go of that scream if she would start to heal. I’ve tried to let go of her scream, but I can’t bring myself to scream with the intensity that I feel is there – it comes out as a choke and a whimper. I worry that the neighbors would call the police because they would think someone was killing me. :) So the scream stays inside with Annie.

Annie never surfaces all the way. She doesn’t even have a safe place that is separate from me. She dwells inside – close to my heart - where she feels protected. Her scream today reminded me of a time when I did let out the scream to end all screams.

I was fourteen at the time and walking to the Mall. My hometown was still pretty small and quiet. As I went by a house, the moron lady who dwelt inside let a large black dog outside. Because of her exceptional smartness, she of course turned right around, went back inside her house, and left the dog outside with me. First of all, I am afraid of dogs. Secondly, I believe dogs can smell fear – they are like middle school students sensing the fear of the substitute teacher and then turning that fear against them.

The dog ran for me.

I froze.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t think.

The dog began to leap.

I watched in slow motion as he/she (Hey, I was scared – I wasn’t checking out dog genitalia) began to leap for my face, and my life flashed before my eyes.

The ultimate scream tore from my lungs.

The big black dog seemed to stop in midair; it turned, and ran all the way back to its porch.

I stood there for a minute wondering if that horrible sound had really emanated from my body. I was shaking. I quickly looked around to see if I had embarrassed myself in front of any people, but I was still all alone except for the dog. I was surprised the woman hadn’t come back out, but then again maybe she really hated people and hoped I was one less person in the world. The dog crouched on the porch. I slowly walked away from the house – I wasn’t taking a chance by moving too quickly. When I got to the mall, and tried to talk to a clerk, I found that I had no voice. I had screamed myself hoarse – with only one scream.

I wonder if I screamed another ultimate scream again – as Annie – if she would feel safe enough to leave the inside.

Being Trina

2010-10-17T17:16:00.003-06:00

Being Trina nearly all the time has its drawbacks. Being her almost all the time has made me think that integration would not be such a bad thing. I am feeling unbalanced. When it is summer and other parts have a chance to be out, I won’t feel the need for integration because everyone will get their turn to shine. Right now, Trina is trying to do it all, but she isn’t very good at anything other than teaching.

Trina cannot find her way around the house if the lights are off. Many of my alters love the dark, but if I’ve been doing school work, and try to get from one part of my house to another part at night with the lights off – Trina bumps into everything. Many of my other alters can travel the house as well in the dark as they can in the daylight.

Trina cannot focus on anything other than school. Because she has to be out so much right now, school is all we think and dream about. People who call and try to converse about other things are probably disappointed in her continual steering of the conversation back to school.

Trina cannot cook very well. I used to think that if a person could read and follow a recipe, they could cook. However, things I’ve made many times in the past are not turning out while Trina is out. Things taste off and don’t look as good as when Laura and Dot are out. I apologize to anyone I’ve ever scoffed at for not being able to cook. Trina can’t even think up what to cook. It may be while before I share a recipe – maybe in the summer.

School, School, School

2010-10-04T22:17:00.000-06:00

School - I feel like it is all I think, dream, eat, and sleep.

I am six weeks into my first year. I have graded thousands of papers, survived parent teacher conferences, and will shortly, hopefully, survive my first evaluations.

I spotted a child who was labeled as lazy and gave him a new label - English Language Learner. Unfortunately, this means I don't get to keep him in my class - even though he is doing well and trying hard - because the law states he has to have a teacher who is ESL certified. I cried when I discovered his problem because I kept hearing that he was the laziest kid in the world from his other teachers. I kept saying, "I know I haven't been here long, but I don't think he is lazy. I see him trying to process. He is trying in my class."

He speaks English without an accent. He had a test score on his record that was extremely high. The test score wasn't his, but it led his teachers to brand him as lazy. It took me four weeks, countless prayers on his behalf, and research to figure out what was going on with this kid. I treated him like a language learner because his process was so similar to what I saw when I was a student teacher. After I found out why he struggled, I said to him, “I didn’t know you spoke two languages – you must be really smart.” He smiled and told me that they don’t speak English at home. I am sad to see him leave my classroom, but at least now he can thrive - he proved this in my classroom. I am proud of him. I hope he keeps progressing.

I struggle with having Trina out so much. She is a good teacher, but because she has to be out so much right now, the other parts are not getting their time. I know that next year will be easier because I will have my curriculum developed (as long as they don’t change the grade I teach). I spend countless hours creating the lesson plans for my students each day and then grading their work each night.

I love teaching, but at times I feel overwhelmed and tired. Now that my computer is working again, I will try to update the blog more often. I feel I’ve been sucked into the school vortex and can’t quite make my way out of it. Because so much of my time is spent at school or doing things related to school, I feel the rest of my life is being viewed from Trina’s eyes. She is emotionally detached from all other aspects. Often I feel I am watching my life outside of school from outside of my body. I look forward to summer when all the other parts of me can come out to play. I haven’t cooked a real meal for long time. I am planning – energy permitting – on making a real dinner tomorrow. If all goes well, I’ll have a good recipe for you soon.

Thanks for visiting my blog even when I am not here.

Sunshine

School Days

2010-08-28T18:06:00.001-06:00

I’ve been busy getting my classroom ready for the first day of school. My room is organized and I've experienced two days with students so far. I’ve done a bit of tweaking, but my organizational plan is functioning well.

Mentally, I am in a fog. They say the first year of teaching is always the hardest. I know I will get my bearings, but for now, I am a bit overwhelmed with everything. There is just so much information to process. The work load is unbelievable. A sweet friend brought us dinner on my first day teaching. I hope she got a lot of brownie points with God for doing so.

I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone now that it is the weekend. My parts that need quiet, alone time are out in force today. I guess they deserve to have peacefulness after two days of 225+ students, crowds, being on all the time, and bells.
I haven’t gone back to see my childhood home. I called the lady back, but she wasn’t home, and she hasn’t returned my call. Now that I’ve dared ask if I can go inside, I really don’t have the desire to do so. Now that I’ve faced that fear it has lost its power over me. Fears are like that – most of them anyway.

A Picture is Worth . . .

2010-08-13T11:08:00.000-06:00

This morning while looking at the few old pictures that exist of us at the last house we lived in with my father, I feel confusion. One picture shows me and two of my sisters looking like ragamuffins. Because the picture is black and white, it is hard to tell if it is late fall or early spring. I think it may be spring because it almost looks like there is a tulip in the back ground – or it could be trash – it is hard to tell with old grainy black and white pictures.

One sister is dressed in long pants and a warm sweater. Her hair is done in braids. The rarity here is that her hair is done. I am dressed in a warm sweater and short shorts. My hair is all over the place. My little sister is dressed in a short sleeve summer shirt and shorts. Her hair has been cut into a short pixie cut – so done or not, she looks adorable. We all look happy because we are smiling for the camera. I wonder which one of us is dressed appropriately for the weather because our outfits are all over the place weather-wise.

I’m sure most of us could produce pictures from our childhoods where we look like we dressed ourselves in the dark. I have many memories of being embarrassed by my clothing and hair. I do have a few pictures where I look nice. We (my sisters and I) joke when we look at old pictures: “It must have been your day to have your hair done.”

I have another picture of this house that shows mostly the house. Two of my sisters and I look like we were included in the picture as an afterthought. All three of us are wearing cute dresses, and all of us have our hair done. We must have been going somewhere important. We are smiling for the camera. We look like a “normal” family.

Another picture shows my beautiful parents. This one must have been taken by my oldest sister because the composition is pretty good. She shows the house, but my parents are the focus of the picture. They are quite the dashing pair. Dad is tall, slim, and very distinguished looking. Mom is slender, tiny, and blond in this picture. They look happy and in love. My how the camera lies. I believe they were in love, but I know they were not happy.

Dad looks so normal, that his image betrays the horror I remember. He tells us we (my sisters and me) that we are crazy. That the things we remember never happened – yet if they never happened why do all of us remember these horrible things. He doesn’t deny the drug and alcohol abuse – in fact he brags about it, but he denies being sexually and physically abusive to us. By the looks of this picture one could believe him. He doesn’t look like a man that hangs out with hippies or abuses his daughters. He is clean cut in his neatly buttoned collared shirt that is tucked into belted slacks. One could believe he is the sane one and the rest of us are trash.

I’ve heard it said that pictures don’t lie, but I think they do. A picture is only one tiny millisecond of a person or thing. It doesn’t show what is going on inside the mind. The phrase, “Smile for the camera,” takes that truth and sugar coats it for our posterity. No one looking at these pictures would guess at the truth that happened inside that house.

Gardening

2010-08-08T18:48:00.000-06:00

Part of gardening is pulling weeds. They seem to grow better than the desirable plants at times. I know about weed blockers, but they get in the way of my style of gardening. We have good dirt, so the weed seeds can take hold quite easily. Besides, if I have weed blocker in my garden, I can’t have nice surprises either.

We (collective we as gardeners) are not surprised by the appearance of weeds, yet we are surprised when a desirable plant grows that we did not plant. If weed seeds can come up willy-nilly where they please, why are we surprised when an unexpected flower pops up? In the mountains and meadows we see wildflowers that no hand has planted. Perhaps I don’t see as many nice surprises in my garden because unknowingly, I pull them up thinking they are weeds. I’m learning to let plants be and see what they turn into to. I can always pull them out later if they are harmful.

Here are two my nice surprises this year. If you know what they are, please leave me a comment.

This first one has flowers about 2 ½ inches in diameter. The leaves are very pretty. The plant is 10 to 12 inches tall.

This one has soft silvery leaves. The plant is about three feet high and has a spray of purple flowers.

I love them both, so they get to stay. I need to let down my own defenses and allow more good surprises into my life.

Kitchen Sink Cookies

2010-08-02T13:52:00.000-06:00

A year or so ago, I went to an estate sale and bought three old cookbooks for 50 cents each. I have found some amazing recipes inside with many more that I want to try.

This cookie recipe makes a ton of cookies; I usually freeze half of them to eat later.

Kitchen Sink Cookies
2 ½ cubes butter or margarine - softened
2 cups sugar
2 cups brown sugar
4 eggs
3 teaspoons vanilla

4 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons baking power

2 cups oatmeal
2 cups coconut
2 cups crushed corn flakes
12 ounces chocolate chips (or more if you like a lot of chips)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cream butter and sugars.

Add eggs and vanilla and mix well.
This is when the ingredients start to look creamy to me:

Stir together flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder.

Add to creamed ingredients and mix well. Stir in oatmeal, coconut, corn flakes, and chocolate chips. This part is a workout - in a perfect world the energy expended by hand stirring would equal or exceed the calories of consuming them.

Drop by spoonfuls onto an ungreased baking sheet.

Bake for 15 minutes. Remove from oven. Cool five minutes before removing them from the baking sheet. These cookies freeze well which is good because if they weren't in the freezer, I'd keep eating them. I think I'll go grab a bag now.

Going Home Again

2010-07-30T15:29:00.000-06:00

I’ve written before about the house I consider my childhood home after my parents divorced, but there is another house that holds many memories for me. We lived in a few houses during the years Mom and Dad were married. I only vaguely remember the home we lived in when I was three years old. I do remember the homes we lived in when I was four and five, but the last home we lived in before the divorce holds feelings of ambiguity for me. I feel drawn to it, but unable to approach it.

The house was beautiful. Next door was another house that was nearly identical – only the porch steps and the shade of bricks were different. The house had a beautiful marble fireplace, built in appliances in the kitchen – along with a sweet little breakfast nook. An additional kitchen was located in the basement. The yard was large and the patio was glassed in. I can still remember sitting under the dining room table while Dad played Malaguena on the piano.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiAxwFdPZg0&feature=related

Listening to this song now makes me feel things I can not describe. I feel teary, stressed, and fearful, and a strange sort of normalcy.

For years, I have wanted to stop by the house and walk around it and maybe (if I dared) asked the owners if I could step inside. My mind has run through this scenario many times over the years. I would drive by often; for several years, I even lived a few short miles away, but I could never get myself to stop my car and approach the house. I was a big chicken. I thought about the possible outcome. The people may feel afraid to have a stranger come into their home, or they may be nice, but what if I had a flashback inside the house and had to rush out? Parts of me (real actual parts – alters) have a desire to see the house and put things in our minds to rest. Other real parts of me are scared to death to ever go back inside. But still, the desire remained. I wanted to walk into that house and prove that it was no more than a house. A lovely house that holds haunted memories, but still just a house.

This week, I had my two daughters with me. They asked, “What do you want to go do?”

I said, “I want to go see the house. I want to go knock on the door and talk to the people who live there. Will you go with me?”

They both said, “Yes.” One daughter said she would go to the door with me. I was scared but really excited. Forty years is a long time to wait to go back home. The house has been changed. At first I wondered if the one on the right or the one on the left was the correct house because my childhood home had changed so much. My father’s beloved rose garden was torn out to make room for a small road. Houses were built behind the house and a new garage filled the driveway. The shades were drawn, so I walked to the house next door to look into the vacant windows. The house on the left now looked more like my childhood home than my childhood home did.

I was sure it was the house on the right though, so I walked back over and my daughter and I bravely knocked on the door. We waited. I knocked again. No answer. I stood there thinking that the steps seemed much smaller than they did forty years ago. The current owners had swept out all the spider webs from the cat-faced spiders that dwelled near the front door when we were small. Dad wouldn’t move them – they were his friends. We were scared to death of them. The stone burro and cart no longer graced the front yard. I was sad that no one had answered, but proud that I had dared climb the steps and knock. We walked over to the vacant left house and peeked through the bare windows.

I had forgotten that both houses had leaded glass with pretty colored glass pieces strategically placed. I pointed out to my girls where my bedroom would have been and the front closet where I spent many hours hidden from dad and his friends– the floor plans were the same. While we were there a woman drove up and asked if she could help us. Her family owned the homes – both of them. She didn’t have time that day, but she gave me her number. She said if I could come back, she would let me walk through the left house. She said it was probably more like what I remembered than the other house. She said my house had been completely gutted and remodeled, but that she would see if she could still take me through it.

During the drive back to my present day home, I felt very happy and strong. I was thankful my girls were willing to indulge their mother and be my armor that day.

I wonder how long I should wait to call. I think I will call next week. I need the house to just be a house. I need it to lose its power over me. I need to be unafraid - or if there is something I need to remember, I need go back inside and remember and work through and process it.

Pavlova

2010-07-25T18:49:00.000-06:00

This is one of my family's favorite dessert recipes. It tastes as good as it looks.

Pavlova
3 egg whites
1 1/4 cups sugar
2 tablespoons water
3 teaspoons corn starch
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon white vinegar
1/8 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 275 degrees. Line a cookie sheet or pizza pan with parchment paper. Make sure you use parchment paper. Oil will destroy the Pavlova.

In a large glass or metal mixing bowl, beat egg whites until foamy. Gradually add sugar, continuing to beat until stiff peaks form. Beat in water, then mix in cornstarch, vanilla, vinegar, and salt.

Spoon meringue mixture into a circle on the parchment lined baking sheet. Form it into a nest with the edges about 1 1/2 inches high. It will bake into the exact shape you form it into - so make it pretty. I forgot to take a picture of the completed circle until after I baked it. Sorry.

Bake in preheated oven for 45 minutes. Turn oven off and leave Pavlova in the oven until cold. Place on a serving plate.

Topping
You can top it with pudding, or whipped cream, or anything you like. I top it with:

A combination of:

8 ounces of extra creamy Cool Whip

8 ounces of vanilla yogurt

1/2 teaspoon coconut extract

Stir together:

Spread over Pavlova and decorate with fresh fruit.

Cut into slices and enjoy. The Pavlova melts in your mouth. My husband says it reminds him of cotton candy - only better.

Rewarded with Lilies

2010-07-20T22:35:00.000-06:00

Do you remember back in April when I planted three lily bulbs? Only two of the bulbs came up, and here is a picture of the one that has bloomed.

I hope the other one will be pink as well. I love bulbs because they reward me year after year.

Bats in the Attic

2010-07-15T11:47:00.000-06:00

In the future, I will write more about how we dealt with my daughter’s situation because I think it is important for people to see how we processed everything. I feel we handled things as well as could be expected, but today I think we need something a little lighter.

In my childhood home that I’ve posted about before, there was an attic. Although, I dared to traverse the tunnels underneath the house, I never dared go into the attic. We knew the attic housed bats and while I am very afraid of mice, bats are even scarier to me – mice with wings – yikes! The entrance to the attic was located in the ceiling of the upstairs bathroom. I dared to look into the attic from the opening, but I never entered it. Now as an adult, I wish I had. We could see an old typewriter that some previous owner had left and the remnants of old wall paper on the walls when we poked our head through the square hole in the ceiling. The hole was covered with a board – much like you would see in homes today.

One day a bat flew down from the attic and landed in the bathtub. We were a house of full of girls – all of us deathly afraid of anything creepy, crawly, or that flew in the night. The bat just sat in the tub in a stupor of sorts. Mom closed the door and stuffed a towel under the door to keep the bat in the bathroom until our stepfather came home in the morning from his other wife’s house. Sometime in the middle of the night, the bat got out of the bathroom and flew around inside the house. I don’t know if a child got up to use the bathroom and forgot about the bat in the tub or if the bat somehow squeezed through under the door – but anyway the bat was loose and was no longer in a stupor.

The bat flew around making a clicking noise that all bats make. Mom called to us to get up and help her catch this bat. Of course Ann being the obedient oldest child got right up to help her. I am not ashamed to say that not only did I not get up, but I pulled the covers up over my head and tucked them neatly around my head and body and held them tightly so that the bat could not get into bed with me. The thought of a bat anywhere near my hair of skin made my fear far outweigh Mom’s need for help.

I listened to Mom and Ann fight the bat from the safety of my cocoon. They chased the bat with brooms trying to get it to leave the house. At one point the bat landed on Ann’s back. I was cringing in my bed for her, but there was no way in hell those covers were coming off me until the bat was out of the house. Mom took her broom and hit the bat off Ann’s back knocking it into the wall where it fell senseless to the floor. She put it into a bucket and put a heavy object over the top of the bucket. It soon regained its senses and tried to fly in the small bucket. It was about 4 a.m. or so.

Although the story was incredibly creepy, it was funny to hear Mom and Ann tell about frantically chasing the bat through the house, Mom hitting it off her back, and it dropping like a rock – knocked out from hitting the wall. I know some you may be bat lovers and think they were awful for hurting the poor little creature, but their fear was pretty intense that night. Yes, it was probably just as afraid as they were, but at least it didn’t have to worry about catching rabies from them.

When my step-dad arrived home, he let the poor creature go. It flew off into the dark of the early morning. We had no idea that medical professionals recommend getting the bat tested for rabies if it has been in the same room with sleeping children. We had no idea that we may have unknowingly been bitten by the bat and probably should have undergone the rabies vaccine, but we were lucky once again. No one contracted rabies from the bat that evening, but we will all remember the clicking as it flew and the creepy feeling of knowing a bat was loose in the house.

Telling Jay - Elizabeth's Independence Day Continued

2010-07-11T20:45:00.000-06:00

The next day we went to see my mother. We told her what happened to Elizabeth, and she wept with us. She cried, “I never wanted my children or grandchildren to go through what I went through.” We sat and held each other on bed - three generations of little girls shattered by child sexual abuse.

One of the good things that came from Elizabeth’s bravery was that several family members who had been abused in their youth (some of them a half century or more earlier) now felt courageous enough to tell their own stories. One person said, “I’ve never told anyone about this before, but . . .” and she disclosed how an adult cousin had abused her over sixty years earlier. There were three cases very similar to this. Her telling gave them the freedom to tell. Unlike those earlier generations it didn’t have to stay a secret. They saw her innocence, and now knew that they too were as innocent of this as she was – no longer did they have to bury their shame. They now saw that the only guilty parties were the people who did the abusing.

I talked to the neighbor and had her ask her children if Dewayne had abused them because he spent a lot of time with them as well. The Stake President called me that Sunday and said that Dewayne was on his way home. Elizabeth told on Friday and they had him home by Sunday night. He lawyered up and went into hiding, so the police were not able to talk to him for at least a week while they worked out a process for him to turn himself in. That part was frustrating. In the meantime, I had to call my son.

The Sunday after she told, President S talked to me. I was still trying to figure out a way to let Jay continue his mission unaware of the horror we were going through. I didn’t think I could form my mouth around the words I would have to say to him and not be with him in person to help hold him up. I called his mission president Monday morning and pleaded with him to help me figure out a way to keep this a secret from my son. He was right there with the Stake President in feeling I needed to tell him - now - so I made the phone call.

For those who do not know how phone calls on missions work, let me explain. Missionaries are allowed to call home twice a year – once on Mother’s day and once on Christmas. Parents do not have phone numbers for their missionary children. We write every week, but missionaries need to keep their minds on their missions. That can be hard to do if mommy is calling everyday because she misses him so much. So, if a missionary gets a phone call from home, he knows it is bad news.

Monday evening I called my son. One of his companions answered the phone. I asked for Elder Jay. I tried to keep my voice light – that lasted through me saying, “Happy Birthday, Jay. What did you do for your birthday?” His birthday had been two days before this phone call. He said his companions had made him a cake from the cake mix I had sent, and they were going to sing to him. He said the cake looked pretty sad. Usually a missionary has one companion, but he was in Nauvoo just before the temple was rebuilt, so he had seven companions. With the exception of being home to hear this news, he couldn’t have been in a better situation.

He said, “Let me go into the other room.” When he got into the other room, he said, “What’s up Ma. I know you wouldn’t call unless something happened.”

My voice shook, “I don’t know how to tell you this. First of all, we will all be okay, but Dewayne molested Elizabeth before he left on his mission. I didn’t want you to hear about this from the news or from another source.” I don’t remember much else of the conversation – only the sounds of his painful sobs as he processed what his best friend had done to his baby sister and our family. The feelings of betrayal cut deeply into his soul. His best friend, who he had trusted, who he was exchanging letters with as they served in different parts of the country, had done this horrible thing.

I was thankful he had supportive people around him, but I wished I could be there with him. He wanted to stay and finish his mission. He had only been in the mission field for a little over three months. He felt the was just getting started.

He and his companions were clearing brush at the temple site. The physical labor was good for him. He said he took his rage out on the trees and brush. He, like his brother, found a tree branch and carved it into a club. A few months later he sent it home. He said he didn’t need a club while he was on a mission for the Lord.

I still cry when I think about that telephone conversation. I longed to put my arms around him, hold him, and comfort him. Even though he was a man of twenty years, in those awful moments, he was my little boy – my first born child. I called his mission president and said, “I am trusting you with my son’s mental health. Please keep an eye on him. Don’t hesitate to get him into a counselor.” The President promised me that he would watch over my son. He assured me that Jay’s companions would also watch over him. It would have to be enough.

We had survived one more hard thing in this process. This was only day four – we had a long, long way to go.

St. Patrick’s/Elizabeth’s Independence Day Continued

2010-07-06T21:12:00.000-06:00

Our Bishop was true to his word – he called back at the ten minute mark. By this time, I had stopped trying to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t know a person could cry so much. Bishop P told me to call and make an appointment with a counselor. He said that by law they would then contact the police, but it was important that before the police were called, that Elizabeth had a support system in place. He asked if I had insurance because if not, he would help me with the cost. I did have insurance and a process for calling for mental health assistance.

“But what about Dewayne? What if he hurts someone while he is in the mission field?” I asked. I had been abused, but never in the name of God. I worried that he could destroy a child’s personal relationship with God and Jesus Christ. It is hard enough to deal with the emotional damage that comes from being molested without having to deal with a shattered relationship with God.

“President S is calling the Mission President now. They will have him pulled immediately.”

“What about Jay? What do I tell him? Do I have to tell him? This is so awful. Jay and Dewayne have been writing each other. How do I tell my son that his best friend has violated our family in this way?”

“You do need to call him. He needs to know why the letters have stopped from Dewayne. He also needs to hear it from you and not from another source. I’ll have President S call you with the number for Jay’s Mission President. Call me if you need anything.”

The thought of calling Jay was almost too much to bear. He was serving a mission, doing the work of the Lord – how would this affect him. Would he get so depressed that he would need to come home? Would he have support in place in the mission field to deal the emotional mess this would create in him? My mind kept trying to think of a way to not have to tell him, but I knew Bishop P was right. He had to know and it had to come from me.

It was now 8:30 a.m. It was going to be a long, long day. I called the number for the counselor, but they didn’t open until 10:00 a.m. I called my fiancé of one week to tell him that we probably wouldn’t be going to the movies with him and his children that evening. Of course he could immediately tell that I was an emotional mess. I told him what had happened. He said, “Do you need me to come over?”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know what I can do, but I can be with you,” he answered.

By the time he arrived, I had contacted the counselor. Each phone call brought a new rush of tears as I brought the horrible words to life once more. We snuggled on the couch – him holding me – me holding her - watching Mr. Roger’s and Barney and Sesame Street. She was ten years old, but I can’t express to you how comforting Mr. Roger’s was that day. Thank your Fred Rogers. Our appointment was scheduled for 4:30 – the earliest they could get us in. We spent the entire day just holding each other – bearing one another up. I didn’t realize the human body contained so many tears.

Andrew left to pick up his children from school. My two other children arrived home from school. I don’t remember eating that day – food is such a big part of my life, but I am unsure if we even ate. We must have, but I have no memory of food. My Daughter, Rose, arrived first. We sat her down and told her what had happened. She cried and felt enormous guilt – guilt that didn’t belong to her, but she still felt it. She had been in the house when Dewayne had abused her baby sister. At this point we still didn’t know the extent of the abuse and we wouldn’t for some time, but she was brokenhearted. Michael arrived home next. He was so angry. He cried angry tears of rage and betrayal, went outside, found a tree limb, and made a club to kill Dewayne with if he ever tried to step foot through our door again.

I don’t remember if I called Elizabeth’s dad before or after our appointment. He was mad. He wanted to kill Dewayne. He blamed me. He said, “If you hadn’t divorced me this wouldn’t have happened. If I were still in the home, this wouldn’t have happened.”

I felt guilty. I felt it was my fault. I felt I should have protected her. His words hurt and in my anger I responded, “Even if we were still married, would you have even been here – were you ever here?” The anger didn’t ease my guilt or make me feel better.

I drove our broken family to see the counselor. She interviewed each of us and then called the police. We were on our way into the next phase of the process. We had survived the first day – the telling. Elizabeth was free of the horrible secret, but it was still horrible. Our pain was raw and as fresh as all the days he had abused her. Now I found my abuse and her abuse getting all tangled up inside my head. I was unsure where mine ended and hers began.

To be continued

St. Patricks Day - Independence Day for My Daughter

2010-07-05T12:27:00.000-06:00

The following may be triggering for some. Proceed with caution.

On St. Patrick’s Day morning, in the year 2000, my little daughter came into my bedroom and said, “Mom, I need to talk to you.” Something about her tone and body language told me that this wasn’t a conversation that could take place with me putting my make-up on while I listened to the news. I walked over and turned off the television and sat down next to her. She said, “We watched a video at school about a girl whose uncle touched her in special ways, and our teacher said we should tell our parents if that ever happened to us. You told me I could tell you if anyone touched me in my private places and someone did, so I wanted to tell you.”

I felt at that moment like my brain was a tablecloth that had been shaken out and folded back up. The first words out of my mouth were, “Grandpa got to you.”

“No, not Grandpa; it was Dwayne. I didn’t want to tell you, but I knew I needed to. Can I still go to school today?”

I put my arms around her and pulled her close to me, pulled her into my lap and held her while I tried to wrap my brain around this information. I was both relieved and saddened that it wasn’t my dad that had done this awful thing - relieved that she had been safe from dad but saddened that another person had thrown his life away. I knew it was important for me to not ask too many questions and to refrain completely from leading questions. She didn’t need anymore junk in her head than what was there. I asked, “Where did he touch you?” She put her hand on her groin. “Over or under your clothing?” I asked.

“Under.”

I hugged her closer. I had to engage my brain. I couldn’t think clearly. I knew I couldn’t go to work and that until I figured this out, she would not be going to school. As I struggled to maintain a hysteria free demeanor, I called our friend and told her that Elizabeth would not be over that morning. She asked, “Is she sick?”

“No, but I can’t really talk about right now. Something has happened. I’ll call you and let you know when I can.” I answered.

I called work and told my co-worker that I wouldn’t be in. She asked, “Is everything okay?”

“No,” I said as my surface cracked and a ragged sob came out.

“What happened?”

“Someone hurt Elizabeth. I don’t know what to do.”

“Call your Bishop,” she replied. “Don’t worry about anything here. Call us if you need anything. We will keep you both in our prayers.”

I had to pull it back together. I felt like I could cry for a million years and the pain would still be there. I was shaking so badly. I called the Bishop. His sweet wife answered the phone and informed me that he was at work. “Do you know if he has any openings this Tuesday (I knew Tuesdays were the days he met with people from our ward)?” As I said this I wondered how we would survive until Tuesday.

“Let me give you his work number,” she said. I think she could hear the distress in my voice. I will always be thankful for her discreet handling of our trauma that day. She didn’t ask any questions, but somehow she knew that I needed to speak to her husband right then.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I call him at work?”

“Yes,” she answered.

When our Bishop answered his phone, he was greeted by a mother in full despair and near hysteria. I told him what Elizabeth had told me. He was a new Bishop and hadn’t dealt with this type of situation yet. He said, “Give me ten minutes. I will find out exactly what you need to do. Will you be okay for ten minutes?”

“Yes,” I sobbed.

Elizabeth and I cuddled and cried on the couch while we waited for his call. I made sure she knew that I loved her and that none of this was her fault. I also told her that I would never let him hurt her again. I still didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t know what the extent of the abuse had been - I just knew from my own experience that I would do everything in my power to handle this situation the right way. I wanted her well. I didn’t want her to make the same mistakes I had made because of what had happened to her. Before this morning, I thought that living through my own abuse was the worst thing, but I was wrong. Knowing my daughter had been molested was the worst thing. I thought back to the night when I had come from seeing Grandma at the hospital. I had walked into Elizabeth’s room and felt thankful she was untouched by this horror, but I was wrong – even then she had already been abused, and I felt sick to the depths of my soul. I felt sorrow for her and sorrow for the young man whose choices had put us in this situation. He was my son’s best friend. He had eaten dinner more often at my house than at his own house. We had trusted him. He had kept my son safe when our home was burglarized. He was the same age as my son – even born during the same month. He had just turned twenty years old. Both he and my son were serving missions for our church. We had to get Dewayne out of the mission field before he hurt anyone else.

There may be some that say, “You shouldn’t have gotten so upset. You should have kept it together. I would have been less traumatic for her if you had stayed calm.”

To those I say, “You try looking into the face of your beautiful child who has just revealed to you that she has been molested and not weep. Even Jesus wept.”

To be continued.

A Teaching Job

2010-06-29T20:52:00.000-06:00

I have officially been hired to teach school this fall. This is a good thing, yet I worry about how this job will affect my system. I had hoped to find a part time teaching job because the alter that is in charge of being a teacher has a tendency to take over the system when she is out for long periods of time. I thought that a part time position would give her the time she needed and still allow the rest of my system time to shine. Because this is a full time position and my first year teaching this curriculum, I will need to spend many hours outside of the classroom developing lesson plans, which means that Trina will need to be out – a lot.

I hope when my 3D children and family call me, they will be understanding towards me and not take it personally if they reach Trina instead of me. When she is lesson planning she prefers not to be disturbed and can be a bit abrupt. I hope that when I run into people from school when Trina is not out that I will somehow remember who they are. This has been a problem in the past. And finally, I hope that when Trina is out, I will recognize people who are important to me.

I know that these are probably not the “normal” worries that most first year teachers have, but this is my normal. I know Trina is a capable teacher – above average. She loves the children she teaches and loves her content area. She is excited to be in the classroom helping students gain a love for knowledge. She has good classroom management skills, and her procedures are firmly in place. Although we will work harder than we ever have before, this will be a good year - if we can somehow figure out how to balance our system.

It feels strange posting about a job. Although most of you don't know who I am, I worry that people will think, 'I hope my kid isn't in her class.' I understand the stigma of mental illness, but I reassure you that my students will be safe, loved, and well taught. Trina is really good at what she does.

Father's Day

2010-06-20T22:30:00.000-06:00

We had a nice Father’s day today. My 3D child made a card for his daddy. My child wrote to his dad, “You are crowned king of this day, and I will do whatever you say – today.” My little buddy is one independent child. He really doesn’t like being obedient – at home. At school he is always well behaved and does just what the teacher asks. It cracked me up how he added “today” at the end of that sentence. He didn’t want his daddy to think he would be obedient always.

We attended church and then went to visit my amazing in-laws. I have been truly blessed in the husband and in-law department. I love these people. My husband is adorable with our child. He is an involved parent. He attends everything that our child does. Parent Teacher Conferences, ball games, music recitals – if my child has something – his daddy is there. Seeing their relationship has been very healing for me. I would have loved to have a daddy like him.

Father’s day used to be a tough day for me. When I still had a relationship with my dad, this day was awkward. Hallmark does not create a card that expresses the proper sentiment for a completely dysfunctional relationship. During the many years that I haven't had a relationship with my father, this day was sad. At church the talks were based on honoring our fathers and hearing about the glorious vanilla ice cream relationships that other people had with their ideal fathers. The children sing songs about running to greet daddy when he comes homes, yet my memories were of hiding when my dad came home. It all hurt – a lot. Sometimes the hurt was so big that I had to feign needing to use the restroom. Then I would stay out of the chapel until the speeches and songs that glorified fatherhood ended.

However, now that I have positive examples of wonderful fathers in my life, Father’s day is much better. I think of the relationship my child has with my husband and how he runs to greet his daddy each day, and I can hear the songs and smile. I can relate the talks to my husband and sweet father- in-law and smile thinking of these two great men that bless my life.

Yes, I still think of my father. I wonder how he is. Yes, it would be nice if he were someone he isn’t, but the reality of our situation is that I have a father who is still abusive. Because I love my Heavenly Father and I know how much he loves me, I can not in good conscience allow my earthly father to hurt me anymore, so I stay away from him.

I forgave my father several years ago. I still remember the day that forgiveness for him came. I was sitting in a college class when the feeling of forgiveness swept over me. I wondered what my responsibility to my father was now that I had forgiven him. Did I need to call or write? If he got sick was I morally bound to care for him? When I got home that evening from college, I asked my husband, “What do I do with this knowledge? What is my responsibility to him?”

My husband answered, “You don’t have a responsibility to him. You do nothing. You enjoy the feeling of peace that forgiveness brings, but you do not allow him to hurt you again. You need to stay safe.”

I felt comfortable with what my husband said. He has been a trouper throughout my healing process. I know that his life is better when my life is stable. He has never met my father and has no desire to ever meet him. If I chose to go see my father, my husband would not understand why, but he would support me in what ever I decided to do. I understand his desire to keep me safe and mentally sound – as mentally sound as a person with ten alters can be. I love and appreciate his willingness to allow this to be my journey. He trusts and allows the process to happen as it needs to. He doesn’t try to push the process along. He doesn’t get scared when I am struggling. He backs off from me when I need my space, but he is there when I need his closeness. He is exactly the man I asked God to send into my life.

This Father’s day, I am thankful to have him in my life. He is the best.

DID, PTSD, or Both

2010-06-16T01:03:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I am not sure if what I experience is from DID or PTSD – or if my experience is both disorders blending together. Today started out well. My 3D child wanted to go get his very first set of new scriptures. He has hand me downs, but he wanted a set with his name on them. He was so excited. It was fun to watch him shop for scriptures. He chose scriptures that are black leather bound with gold edged pages, and we had his name embossed on the front in gold script. We even got a little carrying case to keep them protected. He could hardly wait the fifteen minutes it took to emboss them. He has carried them everywhere today.

Because we were in the area, I wanted to stop at an outlet store that is near the scripture store – big mistake. I hadn’t been to this outlet store for years. I had a little trouble finding it in the industrial area – one metal building with chain link fence looks pretty much like the next, but we found it, parked, and went inside. I was immediately nervous about being there. I’m not sure what set me off, but I was anxious as all get out. The building was old, and crowded with product, and in need of repair, and it smelled like I don’t know what – a combination of sour moisture, cement, dust, and darkness. I couldn’t get the darkness out of my head. In one area the smell was pervasive, and I couldn’t bring myself to touch anything for fear of getting the smell on me.

I looked around – were other people smelling or feeling what I was feeling. The other customers looked okay browsing the overwhelming selection of product. I could feel myself starting to shut down. I was beginning to block out the sights – trying not to look at what was around me – trying to shut out the smells and sounds of the place. Everything seemed so dark and crowded and lacking air. My chest felt heavy and I could feel pressure and weight on my neck. I reached up, but of course nothing was there restricting me. I could feel one of my littles, Annie, struggling to stay calm. I could sense Cat and Laura trying to hush her. I could feel her panic rising into terror.

People who shop at this store usually come out of there with a full cartload, but I had to get out of there. I only had a few things in my cart and that was only because my 3D child had put things in it. I continually told my 3D child, “Don’t touch anything. Please don’t touch the counter. Everything is dirty. You are going to get sick.” I felt like my skin was crawling. I quickly paid my thirteen dollar total and left the store.

I knew I needed to be careful when I backed out of the parking lot. I was in complete a hyper-alert state. Every car seemed too close. People seemed too close. I struggled to get my bearings. It took me a minute to even remember how to turn my radio on. My 3D child was hungry and wanted to stop at McDonalds – which was fine – but I couldn’t remember where the McDonald’s was in that area, so I drove to one close to our house. I had been sweating in the outlet store, but now the McDonalds felt freezing cold. We didn’t stay long because I was exhausted and felt like crying and breaking things – but one has to keep it together to appear normal to the 3D child who doesn’t yet know that mommy has DID and PTSD. At times like this my throat hurts from the pressure of unshed anguish.

When we got home, I fell asleep on the couch next to my child while he played a video game. I am still feeling high strung, hyper-alert, and near tears twelve hours later. I do feel more of a sense of Annie – what she looks like and who she is. She is one that I am just getting to know. I used to call her Little One. It took her a long time to even dare reveal her name. She is slight, and blond, and has pale skin, and pale green eyes. The terror she feels is nearly too much to bear. I wonder if she could ever feel safe enough to share what she has been through – if so maybe she could find healing and peace. Or maybe what she knows and has seen is too black to ever share. Maybe if Cat and Laura would stop shushing her . . . but maybe their shushing protects the system. Maybe what Annie knows would destroy us all.

It is one o'clock in the morning. I need to try to sleep. I think I will take a page from my child and try to find peace in my scriptures.

I’m Grateful

2010-06-14T11:32:00.000-06:00

Today I have a song to share with you. The artist, Paul Cardall, has an amazing story. If you need inspiration today, read about him here. He was born with half a heart - he says that God made up the difference. He was fortunate to survive not only his childhood but also a heart transplant a year ago. A few days ago he climbed a mountain in his state to honor his brother who died a year ago. See video of his climb here. He has faced many trials, yet he still finds the good in life, gives thanks to Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, and uses his amazing musical ability to bring peace into the lives of many people.

Here is the song I want to share with you today. I hope you will both listen to the song and watch the video as it contains many beautiful images.

Grateful by Paul Cardall

Paul – I am grateful for your positive example.

In this music video, the words “Be willing to forgive” jump out at me. I like this phrase. As survivors we are sometimes commanded by well meaning people to forgive. “You have to forgive,” they say. But until we work through our grief and really understand what happened to us, forgiveness seems like one more burden we carry. I often felt like a failure – like I had let God down because I couldn’t reach forgiveness. In a few days, I will tell you more about my journey to find forgiveness for my father, but today, I want the words, “Be willing to forgive,” to be in your mind. I love that Paul Cardall used that phrase because it makes finding forgiveness a gift instead of a burden.

Today I am grateful for:

My life and good health

My family and friends

My beautiful home

All the beautiful things in our world

And of course, Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

Cat's Apricot Tree

2010-06-11T20:56:00.001-06:00

The old house we moved into after the divorce had a giant apple tree with a tree hut built into the branches. We played there often. The little kids could not climb up until they were no longer toddlers. I enjoyed playing there with my sisters, but I had another tree that I liked even better.

Toward the back of our yard was a huge, old apricot tree. It was covered with thick branches and green foliage. Because this tree was so big, I could climb up the sturdy branches and perch where no one could see me. I spent many hours in that tree. I felt safe – like no person could see me, touch me, or hear me when I was tucked into the leafy branches. I was free from the pestering of siblings and parents. The tree was my calm and quiet friend.

Mom would come outside and call, “Jane, Jane.” But I wouldn’t answer her. No person, not even my mom could know about my secret safe place. I felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to answer, “Here I am.” I would wait until she went back into the house, climb down quickly, and run inside to see what she wanted. My tree stayed safe for about two years.

One late spring after the tree had leafed out, we had a horrible blizzard. Between the wind and the weight of the snow on the leafed out branches, my safe place was torn out by the roots and flattened to the ground. I mourned my tree. I wanted my step-dad to be able to right it and put the roots back into the ground. He said it wouldn’t work because too many of the roots had been broken off – only a few remained. I knew he was right, but I wanted him to try to save its life. I kept thinking, ‘He won’t even try.’ My young mind didn’t even consider the size of the tree – it would have taken a crane to lift it.

I felt horrible as the tree was cut into pieces small enough to take away. Mom had taught us that if we sinned there was a price that had to be paid. If we didn’t pay the price for our sin then someone else would have to pay the price for us – meaning that someone we loved may get hurt or sick. I knew I was guilty. I had killed my tree – my safe spot – because I hadn’t answered Mom when she called out to me. My tree paid the price for my sin. I cried for my tree; I missed it so much. I was nervous again because I had no safe place to go anymore. There was no place for me to hide so that I could recharge.

Now that I am older, I realize that the tree didn’t die because I was naughty; it died because of the snow storm. God wasn’t punishing me. I did learn that quite often I prefer my plant friends to humans; trees never lie to me or make up stories to scare me into being good. I mourned more for that tree than for some of my friendships and relationships that have ended. Trees give – they never take. That tree belonged to Cat. It was her safe place. In her emotional safe place that tree still exists – only now it has a house in it so that she doesn’t have to come down unless she wants to.

One time I lived in a house that had no trees, I thought I would die for want of them. As I drove down streets, I would imagine a giant machine that could dig a tree and put it in my yard. The house was a rental, so we couldn’t even plant a tree in the yard. Luckily I didn’t live there very long.

If you are having a tough day, go out and meet a tree. If you can’t climb it, sit and let it support your back. Feel the strength and power in the tree. Listen to the breeze ruffle the leaves – they often sound like wind chimes. I swear trees have a life force that helps recharge a person’s batteries. I am grateful for trees.

When We were Black

2010-06-09T10:24:00.002-06:00

As I mentioned before, the polygamist cult members believed my dad was black because he answered, “Yes,” when mom’s cousins asked if he was. From that day on, this rumor grew legs and ran around the cult. One person said they went to my grandfather’s funeral and he was as black as black. One person said you could tell my dad was black because he had such a dark spirit. They were correct in saying he had a dark (evil) spirit. I personally would not mind being black. In fact, I often tease my kids about future spouses and encourage them to bring some color into our family. When I was teen, a boy told me that I looked like an albino with dark hair. If I didn’t have dark hair, I would blend right into the walls. Yes, I am pasty. I make Casper look like he has a tan.

When my older sisters and I were beginning to be viewed as potential mates by the young men in the cult, the rumor resurfaced in an attempt to keep them from being interested in us. Mom was devastated. She knew that if the people of the cult believed we had black blood then our chances for a future there were next to none. The people of this cult are incredibly prejudiced against all races but white.

During the time this rumor surfaced, Alex Haley’s story, Roots, was a television mini-series sensation. We loved Roots and watched every single episode. Kunta Kinte, played by LeVar Burton, was our hero. Being teens, we thought this rumor was wonderfully funny. We went along with it, just as dad had, and owned the accusations with all the tenacity that we – being as white as snow – could muster. Mom was appalled by our behavior, but we said, “What is so bad about being black? If Dad was black, there is nothing we can do to change it. We are still the same people.” Much to our mother’s dismay, we tried to mimic the African dialect we heard on Roots and continued to laugh and joke about our “black blood.”

At the next cult dance, my boyfriend ignored me – completely. After several frustrating attempts to get him to talk to me, I went outside to cool off. I found out that his parents (his father was the cult’s leader – my great uncle) had told him that he could not see me anymore. I was crushed – not so much with the loss of the boyfriend, but by the fact that he didn’t have the courage to tell me this himself. He sent his half brother – my cousin and best friend (one person) - to deliver the news. I felt disgusted with him for being such a lamb. He wasn’t particularly strong minded – which bothered me. He was intelligent, but he was a follower – all the way. I was fourteen years old at the time.

Some of my sisters married into the cult, but their men were not considered inner circle men. Years later, the rumor of us having black blood kept my little nieces safe from the abusive inner circle. Every single one of my sisters, nieces, and nephews with the supposed “black blood” made it out of the cult. Mom was right – there was no future for us in the cult. I was thankful for the small minds that started the rumor. Sometimes bigotry and prejudice can work in a person’s favor.

Edited to add:
I in no way wish to make light of prejudice or bigotry. In my situation bigotry kept my family safe. I understand that bigotry is almost always a hateful and hurtful thing. As a teen (and as an adult) I often wished for skin of a darker hue. I am thankful that I was at least blessed with dark hair. I do not wish to demean the fight for rights that people who are not white have endured throughout the history of our world. In my perfect world, it wouldn't matter what color a person is, what religion a person belongs to, or what mental illness a person suffers from - we would all be treated with respect.

Spicy Spinach Artichoke Dip and a Message to My Sister

2010-06-05T19:38:00.001-06:00

I was craving this yesterday, so I made it. My son loves to use it as a sandwich spread. I just love to eat it on bread. It always tastes better after being in the refrigerator overnight.

Spicy Spinach Artichoke Dip

1 – 12 ounce package of spinach (fresh or frozen)
1 – can artichoke bottoms (not marinated) - chopped
12 ounces sour cream
1 jalapeño pepper – finely diced
4 green onions - sliced
2 tsp fresh chives – chopped (or ½ tsp dried)
½ tsp salt
1/8 tsp black pepper
¼ cup sliced almonds
Hard rolls, baguettes, or crackers

I prepare the other ingredients while the spinach is cooking.

Make sure to cover your hand with a glove or with a baggie when you chop the hot pepper, or you will regret it later.

Steam spinach until tender, drain on paper towels – use paper towels to remove most of the water from the spinach. Chop spinach.

In medium bowl combine first nine ingredients – stir well.

Refrigerate for several hours or over night.

Serve on thin slices of hard rolls, baguettes, or crackers.

My dear sweet little sister has been going through her own personal Gethsemane lately. I want to tell her how proud I am of her being able to set healthy boundaries. I know it has been hard on her because many people in our family are not used to seeing her stand up, make her own choices, and refuse to allow others to step on her or tear her down. I want her to know that she is incredibly strong. She may get tired of always needing to be strong, but we come from tough stock.

A message to my sister: “Remember our cousin who left the polygamist cult several years ago? She left with no support from her family. Our family was even disgusted with her mother for not being more supportive of her. But you know what, she left, she even fought off cancer, and she is happy and strong. You will find strength you never knew you had – just as our cousin did. When she left the cult and hid out at my house she was an emotional mess. She is now one of the strongest people I know. I admire her for her tenacity. You have come such a long way. I am glad you don’t allow people to use emotional blackmail against you anymore. I’m glad you are being treated like a person instead of an object. I know you are tired from working two jobs to support your children. I know you are frustrated with dealing with people who don’t seem to hear you, but it will get better. Although some in our family are not supportive of the choices you have made to improve your life, I want you to know that I will always have your back, and that I will always love you. I am thankful that you are my sister.”

Buffalo Wings

2010-06-04T09:32:00.000-06:00

This is my family's favorite wing recipe.

Buffalo Wings

24 chicken wing pieces
¼ cup melted butter or light olive oil
¼ cup hot pepper sauce
3 tablespoons vinegar
3 tablespoons hot pepper jelly (optional)
1 package dry ranch dressing mix
½ tsp paprika

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray baking pan with non-stick cooking spray. Dip chicken in mixture of butter or olive oil, hot pepper sauce, vinegar, and hot pepper jelly.

The recipe for Hot Pepper Jelly is posted below. I make it every fall. It adds sweetness to the recipe.

Ready for coating

Put chicken in baking pan. Sprinkle chicken with dry dressing mix and paprika.

Bake for 40 minutes. Broil for a few minutes to brown.

Hot Pepper Jelly
2 Medium red or green bell peppers, cut into eighths - The color of the pepper will determine the color of the finished jelly. I do both green and red because it makes a wonderful plate of festive crackers at Christmas time.

6 Jalapeno peppers, cut in half, 4 with seeds, 2 without - I use red jalapeno pepper for the red jelly.
8 Cups sugar
2 Cups cider vinegar
2 - 3 ounce pouches of liquid pectin

Combine peppers in processor or blender; pulse until chopped fine or pureed. In large pan stir together peppers, sugar, and vinegar. Boil over high heat for 5 minutes. Add pectin. Return to boil for one minute. Skim foam.

Ladle into 9 sterilized ½ pint jars, wipe tops, put on lids and rings. Process in water bath for 15 minutes. Store in a cool dark place.

Serve over crackers spread with cream cheese.
I don't have pictures of this recipe being made because I haven't made it yet this year. I'll post pictures later this fall.

Glory

2010-06-03T10:54:00.000-06:00

“So Sunshine,” you ask, “What about sex. How does a person who has been sexually abused as a child deal with sex?” If you didn't ask, close your eyes, plug your ears, and chant, "La, la, la; I can't hear you," because I'm going to tell you anyway.

Before I began having flashbacks of the sexual abuse, I loved sex. Like many survivors of childhood sexual abuse, I was a pregnant teenager, and had my first child when I was sixteen years old. Having sex made me feel powerful – like I was in control. I got to choose who I had sex with.

After I started having flashbacks, the thought of sex was completely repulsive to me. I was scared of sex. At the time, I was single, so there wasn’t anyone else to consider. Shortly after the remembering began, I met a man, fell in love with him, and apprehensively awaited my wedding night. I was a mother with children who was scared to have sex with my new husband. The only thing that got me through it was the fact that my sweet husband, on the way to the hotel said, “You know, you don’t have to have sex.” I felt that he was completely non-threatening. I decided then that no matter what my father and his friends had done to me, they were not going to take this part of my life away.

Because I felt safe with my husband, I was able to have a satisfying sex life with him. He has never triggered a flashback. However, sex was not the same as it was before the remembering.

After I went into counseling because I knew I had alters, I began to get to know my alters. At first there was me (the host), Cat, Laura, and Dot. I thought it was just us four. One day I could feel another part. She was depressed and self destructive. She wanted the system to die so that she could die. She was full of self hatred. I asked, “Who are you?” Her answer was a string of horrible names that Dad and his friends had given her. Because I couldn’t call her those names, I started calling her Angel – a name she also hated because she didn’t feel she was at all angelic. She was the part of my mind created to deal with sex. As a child, I must have felt that a teenager was old enough to do the things that were being done to me.

This is what she wrote in our journal over a year ago:
“I wanted to be dead for a long time. I hate what I have done in my life. I hate what has been done to me. I am angry that Dad and others made me think that sex was a way to control people. I have been silent for over ten years – ever since we learned the truth. I am fourteen years old. I have long straight dark hair and brown eyes. I am really thin. I hate how our body looks now. The host eats too much – probably because Cat and Laura are hungry all the time. I don’t get hungry.

I feel depressed almost all the time because I feel betrayed, used, and abused. My names before were slut, whore, stupid b****, f****** b****, c***, and dumb. I just wanted to die. I felt dead. Because I felt dead, the host named me Angel. She said that angels are dead people or spirits that help us. She said I was created to help her back when she was a little girl. I feel like I just tricked her into thinking that sex was okay, but I didn’t know until we remembered. Even though I was the one it happened to, Cat had all the fear, and until she spilled that fear, I thought sex was the only reason for living. Now I feel confused and tricked. I want to try to get better so that I don’t feel so awful all the time.”

After several weeks of talking with Angel, we agreed on the name Glory for her. She didn’t like Angel – she felt it was too wimpy of a name. As Glory healed she started to feel less mean towards herself and the other alters. She also refused to ever have sex again. She said, “I am only fourteen. I shouldn’t be having sex.” I was proud of her for setting healthy boundaries. She was impatient with our child alters, but has since healed and grown enough to tolerate and appreciate them now. She is even fond of them.

Because we hadn’t had access to Glory for so many years and like I said before, sex was not the same without her. A new alter – Grown up – stepped forward so that we can maintain an intimate relationship with our husband. Children should not have sex, but it is perfectly okay for grown ups to have sex. I’m glad to have a grown up in my system. :)

Partners of people with DID need to make sure to never initiate sex when a child alter is out; to do so causes the system to be re-abused. Likewise, a person with DID should never have sex when a child alter is out. We can’t always rely on our partners knowing when they are dealing with a child. Set and maintain healthy boundaries. Having safe places for our children alters is important because when a grown up needs to out, the children need to be sent to their own spaces. That is why I talked about creating safe places last time.

Because of my abuse, I need my husband to be clean shaven at all times. Beards are triggering for me. He is a sweetheart and shaves every single day. It is helpful that he in no way resembles any of the men who abused me. I am thankful for my wonderful husband. He truly is a treasure among men. He doesn’t take it personally if I am unable to be intimate. He is willing to love me – all of me – even when I am having an off day.

Creating Safe Places

2010-06-01T12:13:00.000-06:00

Early on after being diagnosed with DID, I learned on a wonderful message board that it was important to create internal safe places for each of my alters. After discussing this with my therapist, I worked together with my alters to create homes for them. Creating safe places is important for several reasons. When an alter is not upfront, they need a place to be. If an alter gets stressed or needs a break, they need a safe place to go. When the host is doing things that are not age appropriate for a child (yes, like having sex), they need to be in their safe place.

Now when I need to talk to an alter, I can see them in their space and we can talk. I can see if they are asleep or awake. If they are not needed upfront, being in their safe place reduces the mental noise of too many opinions.

There is no right or wrong way to do this. A safe place can be whatever the alter feels is safe. They will let you know what they need. For those of you without DID this exercise probably sounds really crazy, but for those of us with DID, it is an important step in organizing our system. Think about it, if you have a place for everything and everything is in its place, doesn’t your home run more smoothly? It is the same concept. I don’t want any of my parts to be lost because each of them serves a valuable function.

The safe places for each of my alters are vastly different although many share a love of books and have included bookshelves full of books in their safe places.

Cat lives in a tree house. Her tree house is not an ordinary tree house. It is a small home in the trees. It is warm and homey with a sod roof and a lot of books. The paint in her house is done in warm jewel tones.

Laura lives in a stone cottage in a walled garden. Her house is bright and sunny. She loves all plants and flowers. Again, I wish I was an artist because I would draw all the safe places.

Joy lives in a sun filled nursery with her caretaker Dot. Her nursery opens up to a yard with a generous amount of green grass, a swing set, sprinklers, and a sandbox.

Shadow lives in my chest, close to my heart, where she feels the safest.

No one doesn’t need a safe place because she can simply disappear when she needs to feel safe.

I have other alters with other safe places but they don’t want me to share them with you today.

If you have DID and you haven’t yet created safe places for your alters, talk to your therapist about it. I hope it helps your system as much as it has helped mine.

Spinach Stuffed Jumbo Shells

2010-05-30T14:55:00.000-06:00

With our cool spring weather, my spinach (that came up on its own) has gone crazy. I've never had spinach do this before. It went to seed last fall, and this spring it decided to get started without me. I made this recipe when we had all the kids over for dinner so that I could use up a bunch of spinach.

Spinach Stuffed Jumbo Shells

12 ounces jumbo shells
12 ounces fresh spinach
2 cloves garlic – minced
2 tablespoons light olive oil
15 ounces ricotta cheese
1 cup fresh parmesan cheese
1 cup mozzarella cheese
1 teaspoon dried parsley
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
¼ teaspoon nutmeg (yes, nutmeg. Trust me - it is good)
½ teaspoon oregano
1 egg – slightly beaten
40 ounces spaghetti sauce

Cook jumbo shells according to package instructions. In large skillet heat oil on medium heat, add garlic and spinach and cover.

Stir and turn spinach with spatula every few minutes. Cook until spinach is tender and can be easily cut with the spatula. Cut spinach and set aside.

Heat oven to 375 degrees

In medium mixing bowl combine the cheeses, spices, and egg; stir well.

Add spinach to cheese mixture – stir well. Spread one cup of spaghetti sauce in the bottom of a 10X15 pan. Fill shells with cheese/spinach mixture and place in a single layer in the baking dish. Pour remaining spaghetti sauce over shells. Cover with foil and bake at 375 degrees for 35 minutes. Remove from oven, let shells rest for 10 minutes and then serve – great with garlic bread and green salad – yummy!

I didn't have a lot of sauce on this serving because the person eating it doesn't like a lot of sauce. I also added a little shredded mozzarella cheese on this individual serving.

Cream Cheese Cookie Bars

2010-05-28T10:12:00.000-06:00

I'll warn you right now that these are addicting and oh so yummy.

Cheesecake Cookies
1 cup flour
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
6 tablespoons butter or margarine - softened
8 ounces cream cheese - softened
1/4 cup sugar
1 egg
2 Tablespoons milk
2 Tablespoons lemon juice
½ teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup chopped peanuts or almonds
Stir together flour and brown sugar. Cut in butter till mixture forms fine crumbs. Reserve 1 cup of the crumb mixture for topping. Press remainder over bottom of a 8 X 8 X2 inch baking pan that has been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray. Bake at 350 for 12 to 15 minutes.

In mixer bowl cream the cream cheese and sugar. Add egg, milk, lemon juice, and vanilla; beat well. Spread over partially baked crust.

Combine nuts with reserved crumbs; sprinkle over the top.

Bake at 350 for 20 to 25 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes.

Cut and remove from the pan. Refrigerate over night before eating.

Confusion

2010-05-26T22:39:00.001-06:00

I always knew that my dad was not a good person. I knew he drank, did drugs, had anger management problems, was a womanizer, and was sexually inappropriate with people, but until I was 35 years old, I didn’t remember much of the abuse I suffered at his hands. I know that so far on this blog I have painted my dad with only one color on the brush – the color bad, but that isn’t the entire picture.

I think the mind of a child paints people as either good or bad – they can’t be both. As adults we realize that people have both good and bad inside of them. We base friendships on the balance of those qualities. When I started having flashbacks after Dad beat Grandma, I felt really confused. He had often told me that I was his favorite, so it made sense to me that I remembered the abuse he heaped on my sisters but not the abuse he heaped on me. When I did start remembering, I felt like my entire foundation was broken. I felt that I had loved him even when he didn’t deserve my love. I felt betrayed.

My mind could not reconcile the good I remembered in him with the horror that I was remembering now. I couldn’t understand that the man who could sit down with a six year old child and patiently teach her how to play chess could be the same man who exchanged her for money. It couldn’t be right – I must be crazy. I wanted to be crazy. The alternative was just too awful.

I remembered Dad playing in the community pool with me. He could be so much fun. He did everything large: laughed large, talked large, loved large, and had large anger. He loved to take us to the mountains. He taught us how to build a campfire by gathering pine needles and small branches to use as kindling and then putting larger pieces of wood on the fire. He always brought a watermelon and placed in the creek so that it would be cold, crisp, and ready to eat after we finished roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. On the days he came home singing, he was a bucket of fun. Granted – many of his songs were completely inappropriate for little girls’ ears, but none the less, he was fun. I loved those days of being safely on his lap with him calling me his little Bambino. One day I even faked being asleep in the car just so he would carry me inside and tenderly tuck me into bed.

I wasn’t sure what to do with the flashbacks of abuse that terrorized my life. Usually, I thought about them for a week or so before calling my older sister and saying, “You are going to think I’m crazy, but do you remember Dad ever French kissing us (or which ever other memory had surfaced)?”

“Oh, I hated it when he did that,” she replied.

"Damn, I was hoping I was just crazy. I didn’t want that to be true.”

When pregnant with my third child, I suffered complications and was on bed rest for six weeks. During that time Dad was clean and sober. He came to my house. He brought crab legs and watermelon for me to eat because one: he remembered that watermelon was my favorite food when I was little, and two: he felt like crab legs would be really good for a baby in jeopardy. I couldn’t reconcile this man with the father who didn’t care that we were starving as children, or with the man who did all the other things I have posted about on this blog.

As humans we try to classify things. We sort – we make patterns. My dad doesn’t fit a category. He is both good and bad. He is charming and anti-social. He is mean and kind. He is compassionate and narcissistic. He is generous and selfish. He defies all that I know about people. When I studied British Literature, I found characters and authors who embodied him. In my dad I see Shakespeare’s Iago—a man who orchestrates those around him to cause hurt, and then sits back, smiling with a deep dimple in his cheek, chuckling at his own cleverness. I see Mary Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein—a man who gives life but then abuses and abandons the very lives he helped create. I see Lord Byron’s Byronic hero—a soul that is selflessly selfish. When good, he would give his last dollar, but when bad, his cutting words flay his victim’s heart, and then his hatred burns anything good that is left.

Every child (at least this one) longs for a father. My father was the man who did all those good, kind things, and I am thankful for those memories. My father was also the man who did all those horrible things, and I feel sorrow for what he did. Because of the horrible things, the good things are tainted and make me feel confused. Yes, I understand that people are not perfect. We all fall at times, but the extremes in his behavior confuse my mind and thoughts. I am both thankful and ungrateful for the good things because it would be easier if I could say, “He is a horrible person; there is no good in him.” But there is good in him. At least there was good in him at one time. I don’t feel there is enough good left in him for anyone to be subjected to the man he is now.

I hope that when my life is done, the good I leave behind will far outshine anything I have done that has hurt others. I know that we are asked to not judge, but I am a proponent for healthy boundaries, and there is not any possible way to have a relationship with a rabid human. I know that God does not expect me to subject myself to more abuse.

In future posts I want to talk about forgiveness because forgiveness is possible – even in cases like mine.

Mud Pies, Green Peaches, and Oh My!

2010-05-24T21:47:00.000-06:00

When I was a little girl we went hungry often. One day, my sisters (I can’t remember which ones) and I made mud pies. We worked hard and put artistic style into our mud pies. They looked good enough to eat. That day I learned that no matter how hungry one is and how good a mud pie looks, it still tastes like mud.

We tried eating what we could find. One neighbor had a peach tree, but because it was summer the peaches were still hard and green. We ate some of them – or attempted to eat them. Green peaches are really hard – and fuzzy. That day I learned that green peaches probably don’t qualify as a food source.

I don’t know if our mother was completely overwhelmed, didn’t notice, or didn’t care, but often our pants had the crotch ripped out. Mom could sew, so I don’t know why she didn’t fix them. Now normally ripped pants aren’t a problem as long as one has underpants to wear. Unfortunately in our house, underpants were as hard to find as pants with an intact crotch. I remember not being able to find underpants and knowing my pants were crotchless, but I thought that I would remember that I didn’t have underwear on, make sure to play carefully, and keep my legs together or crossed all day. That year I learned that no matter how well intentioned a child of five is - she will always forget that she is going commando with crotchless pants until she feels the breeze on her bare butt.

Because of my experiences with food and ripped clothing, my house is never without food, and my children were not allowed to wear ripped clothing to school. My boys always felt like it was badge of honor to get holes in their jeans. I would patch them which made the boys sad. I learned that if you make the patches look cool they don’t mind so much. Did you know that everyone wears jeans with holes in them? I’ve been hearing that for the last twenty years from my boys (even before holes were in style). I can’t bring myself to buy jeans that are already torn – I don’t care what style dictates. I have no desire to feel the wind on bits and pieces that are supposed to be covered with fabric.

Lettuce Wraps

2010-05-21T16:55:00.000-06:00

I wanted to share a recipe with you yesterday, but I had a rough day at school and was completely spent when I got home. So without further ado, here is yesterday’s recipe for your viewing and eating pleasure.

Lettuce Wraps

1 tablespoon olive, peanut, or sesame oil (the sesame oil gives such a good flavor)
1 pound chicken breast cut into bite sized pieces
2 tablespoons minced garlic (or less if you don't have vampires in your neck of the woods)
2 tablespoons minced ginger (or two teaspoons dried ground ginger)
2 teaspoons sesame seeds
2/3 cup teriyaki sauce

Vegetables for filling: grated carrots and cucumbers, bean sprouts, sliced radishes, etc.
Large lettuce leaves – rinsed and drained.

Hoisin sauce – found in the isle with the Asian seasoning and food. My little boy thought it was poison sauce. He said, “Mom why do you want to poison us? Don’t you like us anymore?”

Heat oil in large skillet and brown chicken. Add garlic and ginger and sauté briefly. Add sesame seeds and teriyaki sauce and simmer for 10 minutes.

Prepare the vegetables.

Put chicken and vegetables in lettuce leaves, top with hoisin sauce, wrap, and enjoy.

This is light and quickly prepared meal - ideal for warm weather. I know sometimes the stories on my blog are painful to read. To reward you for your perseverance, I give you good food – well, good recipes.

Did You Pick in my Cake?

2010-05-18T11:24:00.000-06:00

The following may be triggering for some. Please proceed with caution.

Dad was a good cook. He taught Mom how to cook because the people in her family can not cook. Trust me, if you get invited to a potluck with Mom’s family, don’t eat anything. Dad loved chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting and he made one often. Like I said before, sometimes Dad was nice and sometimes Dad was scary. We never knew when his mood would suddenly change or what would prompt that change from happy and playful to scary and violent.

One night when I was four years old, Dad made a beautiful two layer chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting. Like most little children will do, I picked in the cake (took several finger swipes of frosting). It was so yummy that I took several more swipes of frosting. My little sister, Danielle who was two years old, also picked in the cake – probably because of my bad example. We were happy and laughing – thoroughly enjoying licking the frosting off our fingers.

Dad came in the kitchen, took one look at the finger marked cake, and went into a rage. He bellowed at me, “Did you pick in my cake?” I was scared. Experience had taught me that right now, he was dangerous. I quickly shook my head, “No.”

Next he approached Danielle, “Did you pick in my cake?”

She of course was happy that she picked in the cake and cheerfully said, “Yes.” She didn’t know enough to be scared. Dad picked her up and hell entered our kitchen. I watched in shock. I don’t remember her cries of pain, but I do remember the sound of the blows hitting her body and seeing her body swing as she hung from his other hand as each blow landed. My soul felt each strike. I knew I had sinned and sinned badly. I knew that someday I would stand before God and he would condemn me to hell for lying and causing my little sister this beating. My hatred for self grew. My shame and guilt consumed me. No one stopped the beating of my little sister: not Mom, not my sisters, and not me. I didn’t speak out. I didn’t tell the truth, and I would have to live with the guilt.

I was surprised that Danielle didn’t die that night. I thought he would never stop hitting her, that she would die, and that I would be responsible for her murder – because I was a liar. But she didn’t die.

The nightmares started shortly afterwards and lasted for the next twenty five years. In the dream, Danielle and I would be walking through our neighborhood. On one lot would be a giant Clorox bottle instead of a house. The bottle had door and window openings cut into it. In our excitement we would enter the house and begin exploring, but then be overcome by Clorox fumes. I would try to get her out of the house but would be too overcome by the fumes to help her and we would both lose consciousness and die on the smooth white floor of the Clorox bottle. Over the years the dream changed. It got to where I would enter the bottle with her and immediately try to get her out, but in the dream I could get myself out, but I wasn’t strong enough to get her out too. Finally the dream changed to where she would enter the bottle on her own because I wouldn’t step foot inside. I would call from the window opening for her to come out, but she would ignore me because the house sized Clorox bottle was so appealing to a little girl. I would watch from the window as she succumbed to fumes and died on the floor.

When I was twenty-nine years old, my youngest daughter turned four. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me when my oldest daughter turned four, but it didn’t. Anyway, as I was snuggling this sweet little girl who was full of mischief and sparkles, I realized how small and innocent she was. I realized that she was little more than a baby. I thought, “You son of a bitch.” All these years I had taken responsibility for my sister’s beating as if I had been the one dropping the blows on her little body. I had reacted the way nearly any four-year-old would have reacted when faced with intense fear. I sought self preservation. I didn’t know he was going to nearly destroy a two year old child. He was the one responsible for beating my sister. He was the one who lost his temper and over reacted to children enjoying frosting. There never should have been anger or a beating.

My nightmares stopped. I never dreamed about Danielle dying in a giant Clorox bottle again. I knew that when I faced God he would probably take me on his lap and hug me. He wouldn’t condemn a child for the sins of an adult. I think God sent me my little sparkler girl because he knew she would teach me how much He loves us even when we are a little bit naughty.

At my house little fingerprints on cakes are never punished. I may say, “Let’s get you a spoon full of frosting instead.” When I say this, the little child at my house looks at me with all the joy my sister and I felt before Dad lost his temper. Children adore frosting. Go to any occasion with cake and children and look at the table after they get finished. You will see cake left on their plates but never the frosting. I have spent the last forty-two years scraping the frosting off my cake – convinced myself that I didn't like frosting. No longer will I do this. I will have my cake and enjoy my frosting too! Life is too short to deprive ourselves of the good stuff.

Everything Affects Everything

2010-05-17T00:10:00.000-06:00

I recently read the novel, Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher. The main reason I read it is because Sherman Alexie, one of my favorite authors, gave it a good review. The story is about a teen girl who commits suicide. She records the reasons she decided to kill herself and then mails the tapes to the people she felt were connected to her decision. My experience with suicide was different than how this novel describes it. When I stood on the edge of the edge of the cliff that day, I didn’t think about all the people who had wronged me. I thought about going home to God. I thought about ending the intense emotional pain I felt, but I didn’t create a laundry list of those in my life who were mean or hurtful. My decision was not about them – it was about me wanting to end my pain.

Even though my thought process was different than what is portrayed in this novel, I love how thought provoking and compelling the story is. This story shows the impact we have on others, and I do believe that we affect the lives of those around us in ways we may not even realize. Students have written me notes telling me how I have changed their lives when I had not even realized that what I said made a difference to them. Hopefully when I’ve been in the classroom, I haven’t made any students feel badly about themselves. If I have it was not my intent, but this novel shows how even when we don’t intend to hurt someone we often still do hurt them.

Asher writes, (this is the dead girl speaking) “Yes, there are some major gaps in my story. Some parts I just couldn’t figure out how to tell. Or couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Events I haven’t come to grips with . . . that I’ll never come to grips with. And if I never have to say them out loud, then I never have to think them all the way through” (page 201).

As a person with DID, I feel this way so much of the time. I can’t really tell my story in chronological order because my mind doesn’t work that way. I also sense parts (alters) who are still struggling with their knowledge and memories. I can feel that silent scream that is caught in my chest, and I feel other alters trying to silence that scream because they too are afraid of that knowledge.

Asher continues, “You don’t know what went on in the rest of my life. At home. Even at school. You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything . . . affects everything” (pages 201-202).

It is easy to make a snap judgment of anther person without knowing their whole story. I am guilty of this at times. This quote makes me want to be a better person; to seek first for understanding, show kindness, and to try to bring goodness into the lives of others instead of dealing with them in frustration. I tell my students that it doesn’t cost anything to be kind. Yes, I understand that we need to set boundaries and keep unsafe and toxic people out of our lives, or at times we have to be assertive in order to keep from being hurt, but we don’t have to be unnecessarily unkind when we do so.

Jay Asher's quotes were used with his permission. (Thank you!) He very kindly answered my e-mail the same day I sent it to him and said many people miss the first quote but often quote the second one. The first quote really speaks to my heart. He must have been channeling a multiple or an adult survivor of childhood abuse when he wrote that. :)

Tomorrow, if I am able, I will try to share the story of the chocolate cake and show you just how much one event can impact the lives of those who witness it. Everything affects everything.

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

2010-05-16T16:25:00.000-06:00

Exodus 20:12 says, “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

This is a pretty straightforward scripture – one of the Ten Commandments given during the time of Moses. Many people have no problem with this scripture, but for those of us who are adult survivors of childhood physical and sexual abuse that was carried out by our parents, this scripture becomes a yoke too heavy to carry. We are tied by that yoke to a parent who cannot or will not honor their child. How does one honor a parent who is undeserving of honor?

I struggled with this scripture for many years. My dad even threw this scripture in my face when he felt I didn’t come visit often enough. After I started remembering all the abuse he and his friends had inflicted upon my childhood, I prayed about this and studied my scriptures for an answer. I found it in St. Matthew 22:9 And call no man your father upon the Earth; for one is your Father, which is in heaven. Here was my answer and my freedom from needing to honor a wretch of a man. Now that I felt free to call on Heavenly Father to be my father, I understood how I could honor my dad.

By honoring my Heavenly Father, I was honoring my earthly father. If I spent time with my dad, he would without a doubt re-offend against me or my children. By allowing him to sin against us, I was giving him more sins that he would have to answer to God. How is that honoring him? By staying away from him, he is no longer able to sin against me which means less that he will be held accountable for. I choose to live the best life I can. I choose to be happy and have joy and purpose in my life. By making these choices I can honor both my Heavenly Father and my earthly father.

I am a firm believer that those who have suffered childhood abuse should not be re-victimized by the scriptures. When I struggle with a scripture, I pray about it, read the scriptures, and invariably the answer will come. If we understand how much our Heavenly Father loves us, we will know that his words were not written to cause us more distress – they are there to comfort and lift us.

A Hard Week

2010-05-14T10:18:00.000-06:00

The following will be triggering for some; please proceed with caution.

This has been a very hard week. On Tuesday I read a bout a little boy in Utah who was murdered by his mother and step father. Ethan Stacy, a darling little four year-old, was visiting his mother for the summer. He arrived in Utah on May 1st, and on May 11th they found his body. He was murdered on Mother’s day. I won’t go into all the details because they are truly horrific, but if you click on Ethan’s name up above, it will take you the news story.

I weep for this dear little boy and his father who loved him and didn’t want to send him to Utah. I weep for all the dear little children who are still being abused. Often, unless the child is hospitalized or killed, their plight is not revealed until they are old enough and strong enough to talk about it. I think I could kill both of the people who murdered Ethan and not blink an eye. At some level I know how scared he must have been. It is hard for a child who is being abused to understand why the people who are supposed to protect him would harm him. I couldn’t understand this as child, nor do I understand it now. If the people who are supposed to love us, hurt us, there is no where to turn for help – when we are little. I hope that when the day comes for these murderers to meet God they will somehow get to experience the fear that Ethan felt because then will understand the horror of what they did to him. When I say this, I don’t mean that I want them to feel their own fear; I want them to know and feel what Ethan felt – his experience.

The news is now reporting that the step father was diagnosed with multiple personality disorders. I’m not sure if that means he had several disorders or if the newspaper had a typo and they mean he had Dissociative Identity Disorder – or that he had DID and other personality disorders as well. If the defense tries to blame this murder on DID, I will be angry. As a person with DID, I recognize that I am responsible for everything that any of my alters do. My mind created these alters as a way of survive horrifying conditions when I was a child. They are all me and I accept responsibility for them. I wonder what the mother’s excuse will be for the murder of her child – she does not have DID.

My heart breaks for this little one and his father. I pray that his father can find peace somehow. He must miss this little guy so much. My mind prays for justice for Ethan. I pray that laws protecting children will be strengthened so that child killers don’t get off with a five or ten year sentence. I do hope the prosecution can seek the death penalty in this case – it won’t bring Ethan back – but it will assure that neither of these two people will ever hurt another child.

Names, Planes, and Remote Controls

2010-05-13T14:12:00.000-06:00

I tried to write the letters small and neat like mom, but my little hands lacked the needed motor skills to form the letters precisely. The permanent maker bled through the back of my dress where I had tried so carefully to claim my belongings with my name. It was ruined. Once, when we lived in our old house, I’d written my name inside of a cupboard. At least in that cupboard one couldn’t see the misshapen slanted downward letters unless they looked inside and underneath. Would I ever get it right? Would my writing ever be nice and neat? Or would I be forever doomed to see my mark – ugly, large, and always going downhill? I practiced writing on the back of my dresser, but although the first letter started out nice, I couldn’t keep them lined up and by the time I came to the last letter it was several inches lower than the first.

Even before the advent of the internet and blogs I longed to leave my mark – to have something show that I existed even if it was just my name written on something that belonged to me. I mattered and I wanted to prove that by showing my name written nice and neat by me. I think all children like seeing their name. The severely disabled students I work with can’t read the word cat, but they can recognize their own name and that of every other student in the class. There is something about seeing our names in print that tells us we are someone.

While I practiced writing my name in big black letters that bled through my clothing, my dad built airplanes. He decided to build an airplane for each of his daughters and put our names on them. I was so excited to have him build an airplane with my name on it. These airplanes were going to have motors and remote controls. He said we would go fly them when he finished. As he finished each plane, he set in the freezer room. He had two of them done. I loved going in the freezer room just to look at them. I was careful not to touch or bump them. When my plane was finished and placed alongside those of my sisters’, I carefully ran my finger along the letters of my name on the beautiful yellow plane. My name would go up in the sky with the plane. I was so excited to go fly it.

When we went to fly the planes we didn’t take all of them at once. I was so happy that mine was chosen by Dad to go that day. Dad operated the remote control (which were not nearly as sophisticated as they are now days). My plane was up – I squealed with excitement to see it in the sky. It was fun to watch it soar through the air, and I ran around trying to follow it. Dad said, “Be careful; don’t let it crash.” But it did fall from the sky and landed with a crash of splintering balsa and torn tissue. “G** D*****, you let your plane crash.” His tirade lasted for several minutes. I felt awful. My beautiful yellow plane with my name on it was broken and torn. “S***, it’s ruined. I can’t trust you with anything.” I felt confused. He had been the one operating the remote, but he blamed me for the crash because it was my plane. I was sad but I didn’t cry. I didn’t want him to really give me something to cry about.

The day was no longer bright or exciting. It wasn’t fun to have my name on a plane. He fixed the plane, but each time we went to fly them, I hoped mine would be left at home. On the days mine was in the air, I held my breath hoping it wouldn’t crash and praying that when it did crash (because Dad always crashed them) that it wouldn’t be too damaged. The more damage the plane sustained, the meaner the words were that flew from Dad’s mouth. I didn’t like seeing my name on things anymore. Having my name on things just got me into trouble. If my name was on it, I couldn’t be invisible, and when you live with an abusive person, being invisible is important.

Several years ago, my baby sister asked me why dad had let her operate the remote control when she was a toddler. I looked at her with a confused look. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

She said, “I remember the planes crashing and him being really mad at me and yelling because I crashed the plane. I can’t understand why he would have handed the remote to a baby.”

“He didn’t let you fly the planes. He flew them and if he crashed your plane – the one with your name on it - then you were the one in trouble.”

Her baby mind had assumed that she was the one flying the plane because he made us feel so responsible for the crashes. He operated the controller – always – but his actions and harsh words made us feel shame and guilt for something we had no control over. This is one of the reasons it is hard for me to display the Lancer that I wrote about before. The planes evoke conflicting emotions in me – not as badly as they used to, but those twinges of shame and guilt still pop up now and then.

On to brighter things.
Although these tulips come up every year, I'm always surprised by how big they get. The stems are over two feet tall and the flowers are over six inches tall. They are lovely. they grow near the bird's nest, and the momma bird was not happy to have me working so close to her eggs. She was yelling at me pretty good today. At one point she swooped down near my head - gave me visions of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

I better go get my plants into the garden. Happy Spring!

The Funeral

2010-05-12T13:03:00.000-06:00

Several weeks before Grandma died, I received a summons for jury duty. I had received several through the years but had never had to serve. Just like the times before, I was to call each day after 5:30 p.m. and a recording would say if I needed to show up or not. I thought it would be interesting to serve on a jury, but so far every time I called the recording said, “You do not need to report. Call back after 5:30 tomorrow for further instructions.” (Or something to that effect)

Of course after Grandma died, the recording said, “Please report on Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. Failure to report will result in legal action against you.” (Or something to that effect)

I thought that if I called the nice people who worked for the court system, they would immediately take pity on my predicament and grief process and say, “Oh, I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandmother. We will excuse you from jury duty this week.” Boy was I wrong. When I called them bright and early Monday morning, they said, “That is not a valid reason for being excused from jury duty. You still need to report.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“No.” click.

Okay, I thought, I’ll just go down there, take her obituary and certainly they will understand that I am not emotionally fit for jury duty this week. Sadly, I found out that everyone who worked at the courthouse was terminally jaded from being subjected to criminals.

Me: I was told to report for jury duty, but my grandmother died on Saturday, so may I be excused?

Them: Take a seat over there with the other jurors.

Me: But her funeral is on Wednesday. I have the obituary right here. I can’t be here on Wednesday.

Them: You can be jailed if you don’t appear. The trial starts on Wednesday morning. Go sit down.

Me: But . . .

Them: no words – just a hard glare.

I sat with the other jurors thinking that these government workers reminded me of the government workers on Beetlejuice. They were hard.

I contemplated what would happen if I didn’t show up on Wednesday. Would police come to the funeral to arrest me? How long would I have to stay in jail for failure to report for jury duty? Would I have a criminal record if I didn’t show up? All I knew was that I was not going to miss my Grandma’s funeral – no matter what happened that day.

After waiting for an hour, we were herded into a courtroom to be questioned by the prosecution and defense attorneys. All I could do was answer their questions honestly and hope they wouldn’t pick me for the jury.

First question: If you’ve ever been the victim of a violent crime raise your hand.

I raised my hand along with another woman. They asked her to tell them about it. She says, “I will be happy to tell you in the privacy of the judge’s chambers.” I was so glad they called on her first. I did not want to go into my family history in front of a courtroom full of people, so I repeated what she had said.

Second question: This case involved illegal drug use, raise your hand if you feel you can not be an objective juror. (or something like that)

I raised my hand but was not asked to expound on it. They asked several more questions most of which I could honestly raise my hand to. After about an hour of questioning, they lawyers left the room to conference or do whatever it is lawyers do at this point. They came back in and excused several prospective jurors. I think – are you kidding me – I’m still here. They then excuse the women who had been the victim of a violent crime and they excuse me. I was so relieved. When I left, I asked a clerk if I still needed to call in each day that week. She said, “No.”

It took half a day of stress at the courthouse, but I was happy to know that I could go to Grandma’s funeral without the fear of being arrested.

When the kids got home from school that day, my youngest daughter had some papers that her teacher had sent for me. Her note said, “This was a writing assignment in our reading class. Students were to choose a person, place, or thing and write a descriptive paragraph about their topic. I was saving these papers for SEPs in March, but Elizabeth’s is very touching and most appropriate to share with you now.”

Elizabeth’s paragraph: My great-grandma smells like makeup. She is old. She is 92. I love going there and she is beautiful. When I go there she says, “I love you.” She had drawn a picture of my grandmother to go with her paragraph. We had Elizabeth read this and show the picture at the funeral. Teachers are wonderful people; I was so thankful to get this now instead of waiting. When Elizabeth was a baby, she was very colicky. Grandma was one of the few people who could quiet her when she was distressed. All of my children adored their great-grandmother; all of them struggled to deal with her passing.

We didn’t know if Dad would show up at the funeral. If he did show up – would he be violent? The court sent plainclothes officers to guard us – just in case of trouble. Dad did not show up. He sent a friend to take pictures of everything. It was kind of creepy – this yucky man taking pictures of all the grandkids, but it was better than having Dad there. Still, we were all on edge.

Mom was another story. She always professed her undying love for Grandma – the woman who treated her like a daughter and took her under her wing after Mom’s mother had died, but when push came to shove, she put the polygamist cult ahead of Grandma. She said she had to go on a buying trip. She could have sent someone in her place, but she did not. Then she complained and said, “I wish I could have been there.” I said, “You could have been there.” Just as always, my sisters and I were there by ourselves without the love and care of either parent. We were burying the person I loved most in the world and neither of them could be grown up enough to be there to support us. I was glad Dad stayed away but hurt that Mom made the choice she did. We needed her that day, and she once again let us down.

Even with all the trauma and pain that surrounded Grandma’s death, the funeral was beautiful. My aunt did such a good job on planning everything. She ordered two dozen red roses for the top of the casket. She even made sure to put a Kleenex in Grandma’s sleeve – just like Grandma had always done in life. Grandma was buried next to her husband in a cemetery that overlooks the city.

Several months after Grandma’s death, my aunt was looking at the red roses she saved from the funeral and discovered that about half of them had turned a lovely shade of yellow. Yellow roses mean joy and happiness; we took this as a sign that Grandma was happy. Knowing Grandma, she isn't wasting any time in heaven. She told me once that she helped plan all the events in her little town when she was a young woman. I'm sure she is giving God and the angels a run for their money with all her activity and planning.

Green Soup with Little Bits of Chicken

2010-05-11T18:19:00.000-06:00

I found the cookbook, Lose Weight the Smart Low-Carb Way, at the book swap yesterday, so of course I had to try a new recipe. I need to lose about 20 pounds, but I don’t put any effort into actually losing weight. Because it was a rainy day and I wanted to make bread, I thought the Creamy Broccoli Soup with Chicken would be the perfect recipe to try. Yes, I know that bread is not low carb, but is sure does taste good with soup.

I put two tablespoons of butter in a skillet and sautéed one sliced onion and one sliced clove of garlic until they were tender. The recipe calls for one chicken breast –cut into bite sized pieces – to be put in the soup at the end of the cooking time, but I wanted my chicken seasoned with the garlic and onions so I cooked it with them.

I removed the chicken from the onion mixture and set it aside. I added three tablespoons of flour to the onions and let it cook for one minute. Then I added three cans of chicken broth, 1 ½ pounds of cut up broccoli florets, 2 bay leaves, ¾ teaspoons of ground sage (yes, sage in broccoli soup – I couldn’t believe it either), and ¼ teaspoon black pepper. I cooked this until the broccoli was tender, discarded the bay leaves, took out about a cup of broccoli florets for the soup, and then did a very stupid thing.

The recipe says, “Ladle the soup into a blender, process until smooth, and return to pot.” They are evil I tell you. What they didn’t say is, “Make sure you use the actual blender lid (not just some random lid) for this step, or the combination of heat and whirling blades will create broccoli soup projectile all over your arm and kitchen.” They also didn’t say, “When blending hot soup, put no more than two cups of soup into blender at one time, or even with the right lid, the combination of hot soup and whirling blades will send broccoli soup shooting out of the top of the blender lid.” They also should have a warning that says, “When blending hot soup, please clear your kitchen of small children and animals. Wear eye protection and arm protection. Maker of recipe is not liable for burns or damage to kitchen resulting from exploding hot soup.”

Because I learned the hard way, you don’t have to. Aren’t you glad? I didn’t get pictures of this step because, well, my arm was submerged in cold water while I intermittently wiped broccoli soup off the walls, counter top, cabinet fronts, and floor. There was still enough soup left to finish the recipe. I was lucky.

The recipe also doesn’t tell you that at this point your soup is going to be really green – I mean really green – like if you blended Kermit the Frog in your blender green. I was getting concerned at how ugly this soup looked. I added the one chicken breast (it really needed two breasts – and more unblended broccoli florets), the reserved broccoli florets, and 1/3 cup of half and half. I thought it needed more half and half, so I increased the 1/3 cup to ½ cup. The half and half diluted the green just a bit. I also added a shake or two of cayenne pepper to my personal bowl of soup.

Husband came in and before tasting it said, “I wouldn’t make this for company. It is really ugly.” Little son said, “Oh yuck. I’m not tasting that.” Little son did taste the soup and ate two bowls of it. Husband tasted and said, “The flavor is good,” and ate at least two bowls it. Sage in broccoli soup works – who would have thought it.

I liked the flavor but was disappointed in the title of the recipe. The title is “Creamy Broccoli Soup with Chicken.” For one thing, this soup is not creamy. Blending broccoli and chicken broth does not create creamy. One chicken breast for six servings does not make chicken soup. If they called it, Green, I mean Really Green, Broccoli Soup with Little Bits of Chicken, I would have been okay with it – as it was, I was disappointed that it didn’t have the creamy texture of a true cream soup. I did, however, feel really good after eating it. It only has 177 calories per serving (unless you pump up the half and half like I did) and 16 grams of protein. It is super healthy and something I may make again now that my arm is no longer red.

Grandma

2010-05-10T12:24:00.000-06:00

I took the kids to see Grandma frequently. After she had been away from dad for about three weeks, she started to gain clarity of thought and be more wakeful which made us wonder if he had been drugging her. When she was with dad she would often fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, but now it was like we had turned back the hands of time and she was getting younger. She missed dad and she missed her old apartment. My aunt arranged to have Meals on Wheels come each day just so Grandma would have a lunch time visitor. Grandma hated the food, but she would drink the milk and eat the roll they brought each day. I asked, “So what is wrong with the food?”

“They bring casserole all the time. I don't like things that are all mixed together. If they bring vegetables they are overcooked and mushy. I like fresh vegetables.”

One evening the kids and I took her out to dinner. The only thing she would order was a fresh tomato. I had to go back and ask the waiter if the cook could find a tomato that was not too ripe and slice it for her. She was so happy with her plate of tomatoes. Taking her out to dinner was time consuming because she had to stop and talk to every child she saw. She was a life long teacher. We loved seeing how well she related with children.

She enjoyed playing bingo with the other residents and was adjusting to her new life. One morning as she was getting ready for a funeral, she felt a terrific pain in her hip, her leg gave out, and she fell to the floor. Thankfully, she was in a place where the staff checked up on the residents and was soon found. She was transported to the hospital and diagnosed with a broken hip.

She had surgery to repair her hip. The doctors informed us that she had an aortic aneurysm. They felt she was too old to survive the surgery to repair it. They said that eventually it would rupture and she would die quickly. We worried about this, but since there was nothing that could be done to repair it, it fell into the category of “help us accept the things we can not change.”

One night after I’d returned home late from the hospital, I went up to check on my youngest daughter. The teenagers had gotten the little ones to bed. My eight year old daughter had kicked off her covers. The moonlight through the window spilled over her golden hair, her slender legs, feet, arms, and delicate hands; the sight brought out a feeling of intense protectiveness for this child I so adored. She was eight years old – older than I had been when I was sexually abused and beaten. I looked at her tiny limbs and wondered how anyone could look at the body of a small child and see anything but a dear sweet child. How could anyone look at what I was seeing and feel sexual arousal? I couldn’t understand it. I carefully tucked her covers around her and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was unscathed by the evil of sexual abuse. I talked to my kids on a regular basis about good touch/bad touch. I felt confident that they could and would come to me if anyone touched them inappropriately.

Mentally, I was still dealing with the trauma of my own abuse, but still lacked time to get into counseling. Grandma was soon moved back to the assisted care center where her apartment was located. One side of the complex was a hospital – which was where she was moved. I called her one day to ask what they had brought her for dinner. She said, I don’t know what it is, but it looks like cooked grass.”

“Do you want me to bring you a chicken breast with steamed vegetables and a sliced tomato?”

“Oh would you? I’d love that.”

When I got there, I asked, “What do you eat on the nights I don’t bring dinner?”

“I just ask them for another can of ensure.”

“Grandma, you look so pretty today.” She was in a lovely pink nightgown and had just had her hair done.

“Mary was up earlier; she took me to get my hair done. Did you know they have a salon in the hospital?”

“I didn’t know that. I’m glad she took you. I know how much you love to get your hair done.”

I helped Grandma into a wheelchair and we (my two youngest 3D childen and I) took her for a walk. She wanted to go see her neighbors. We walked over to that wing of the building and joined her neighbors in the great room and watched the news. There was a story that the schools were facing a substitute teacher shortage. Grandma who taught school until she was 86 years old said, “I am going to get out of here and go sign up.” I chuckled because I didn’t doubt that she would do it. Her mind seemed as sharp as ever now that she was a way from dad. “What do you think your dad is doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “He got so mean, and what he said to Rose was so awful that I can’t go see him again. You know he was violent to us when we were kids. I guess he just got mean again.”

“I want to see him,” she said.

“I know you do, but he said he doesn’t want to see any of us.”

“I guess you are right. Did you know that I am going home tomorrow?” she asked.

“No, you are going home on Sunday. Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, “because I think I am going home tomorrow.”

“Sunday, Grandma; I promise.”

“Well, okay.”

We wheeled her back to her room. I helped her into bed, gave her a kiss goodnight, and said, “I love you Grandma. I’ll be back up on Sunday to see you.”

“I love you too. Thanks for coming up.”

The next morning my cousin called me, “Grandma died early this morning.”

“No! I was just up there. She looked so good. She can't be gone.”

She had awoken with a terrific pain in her chest. She called out to her room mate. Help arrived quickly, but the aneurism had ruptured. They gave her morphine, called my uncle to come quickly, and she died within fifteen minutes.

She was right when she said she was going home tomorrow. She died only a few days before what would have been her 65th wedding anniversary. I know she was old. I know her body had issues, but her mind was sharp and I wanted her to stay. I missed her so badly. I couldn’t believe the beautiful, bright grandmother I had put my arms around only hours before was gone. She was the most important adult in my life. She helped me be a better mother and a better person. She was the best role model, and I was thankful I got to have her for as many years as I did. She had said she was going to get out of there and go sign up to teach. I hope there are children for her to teach in heaven.

I still miss her everyday. So often, I long to pick up the phone and say, "Grandma." I send her messages in thoughts and prayers every day. I hope she gets them.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-09T09:25:00.001-06:00

My day has been wonderful so far and it isn’t even 9:00 a.m. My little son gave me the cutest card with a heart formed from his fingerprints and a picture of him in the center. I love the elementary school teachers for coming up with these wonderful ideas. I will be sad when the day comes that I no longer get these little bits of love from a young child.

Yesterday I found the piece of jewelry that I wanted to buy with my graduation money. The stones are mystic topaz. They are fragile because it is normal topaz coated with a film and heated to bring out different colors. They need the same care as pearls. The coating and heat process create a rainbow effect in the stone so different colors appear at the same time. I find this stone very appealing.

My children gave me the sweetest graduation gift that shows me just how in touch they are with me. My daughter found figurines that include flowers, gardening, birds, and nests – and she did all this before she read my story about birds, nests, and trees. When she emailed a picture of the gift to her sister, her sister asked if she had read my blog yet that day; she had not. I love my kids and how they know just the right gifts to bring into my life.

I hope you all have a lovely day. I know that Mother’s day is hard for many of you: some are missing their mothers, some are missing the children they were unable to have, some are missing their angel babies, and still others gave birth and then made the great sacrifice of allowing another women to become a mother. My thoughts and well wishes are upon each one of you this day. To those who still have their mothers but struggle with the relationship – I understand because that is where I am. I love my mother but sometimes distance is a good thing. To those who still have their mothers and have good solid relationships with them – you are truly blessed.

Momma bird is still doing well. She got mad at me the other day when I got too close. Today she sits waiting for her babies to hatch.

Taking Control of the Nightmares

2010-05-07T20:46:00.000-06:00

During the time I suffered from intense PTSD, I found it nearly impossible to sleep at night. I avoided sleep because it was usually interrupted by horrible nightmares or by me jolting awake because of being hyper alert even in sleep. I was afraid of sleep. I found some comfort in the scriptures. I read each night before I went to sleep, but still the nightmares came. One night, I happened upon Proverbs 3. I found a lot of wonderful things written there, but the parts the helped me the most were verses 23 to 26.

Proverbs 23 – 26: Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble. When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet. Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked, when it cometh. For the LORD shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.

I probably read this twenty times before I went to sleep. When I awakened in the night, my heart pounding, I thought of these verses and went back to sleep. My dreams started to change. Instead of waking up with no memory of the dreams, I started to remember them. I started to take control of situations in my dreams. If Dad was in a dream causing problems, I was strong enough to tell him to get away from me. If he wouldn’t, I was strong enough to pick him up and throw him away from me. In one dream I held him by the throat up against a wall and said, “Don’t call me, and don’t come see me; you have no concept of boundaries, and I can’t deal with you anymore.” I dropped him to the floor and walked away from him.

I felt like God put these verses in the Bible just for me. Did people centuries ago suffer from nightmares too? Perhaps they did and God knew that those of us who needed these verses would either find them on our own or have them pointed out to us. I am thankful for these four verses. They saved me during a very difficult time. I still had a long way to go to find forgiveness, but at least I could sleep. Yes, once in a while a bad dream would get me, but not at the level they did before.

My garden is full of surprises this year. I love tulips. With the help of the bees, my tulips are beginning to create offspring that is unique to my garden. Here are some examples of the beauty they are creating.

I often have plants come up in my garden that I didn't plant. I think they want to come join our flower party. I welcome them. I do have a boundary issue - so they have to behave and not try to choke out any other plants - if they are good, I let them stay.

Dinner - Stir Fry

2010-05-06T19:02:00.001-06:00

Broccoli Chicken Stir Fry
1 package rice sticks
1 ½ pounds chicken - cut into bite sized pieces
1 cup chicken broth
4 tablespoons soy sauce
2 teaspoons basil
4 teaspoons corn starch
¼ to ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 carrots sliced
4 cups broccoli florets
1 bundle green onions - sliced
½ cup peanuts or almonds - optional

Sauce: Stir together basil, cornstarch, cayenne; add broth and soy sauce - set aside. I double the sauce recipe.

Preheat oil in wok or large skillet over medium high heat. Stir fry carrots for about 1 minute. As you can see, I used baby carrots - so I used more than two :)

Add broccoli. Stir fry 2 minutes.

Add green onions - stir fry for another 2 minutes. Yes, I know I used purple onions, but it is what I had on hand - it was still delicious.

Remove vegetables from pan.
While chicken is cooking cook rice sticks. Place in pan of boiling water (yes, you need to take them out of the package first), turn off heat, cover, and let sit for 10 minutes. Drain, return to pan, and keep warm until ready to serve.

Stir fry chicken till done.

Add nuts.

Pour sauce over meat and nuts. Cook and stir till thick and bubbly. I made double the amount of sauce because I like sauce.

Return vegetables to pan; stir to coat.

Serve immediately over hot rice sticks or rice.

One thing I love about making this recipe is taking the leftovers to work the next day. The flavor is even better.

Strawberry Cream Cheese Pie

2010-05-06T14:00:00.001-06:00

After two days of sad posts, I thought I better post something happy so I don't scare all my readers away. Happy for me is food and what says "Happy," better than fresh strawberries and cream cheese? I will share tonight's dinner recipe later today so that I can get pictures for you.

Strawberry Cream Cheese Pie
1 – 9 inch baked pie shell - cooled
1 pint fresh strawberries (I always add more because can you ever really have too many strawberries?)
1 package strawberry Danish Dessert
8 ounces cream cheese - softened
3 Tablespoons powdered sugar

Prepare Danish Dessert following directions on package for pie glaze.

Chill in sink of ice water - but don't get the ice water in the dessert mixture.

With electric mixer, combine cream cheese and powdered sugar. Beat until smooth. Spread in the bottom of cooled pie shell.

Clean, remove caps, and slice strawberries. Add to cooled Danish Dessert.

Pour filling/strawberry mixture over cream cheese mixture in pie shell. Chill for several hours before serving.

This pie is so good that even my son who doesn’t eat sweets loves it. I make my pie shell using the standard oil pastry recipe. You can use any pie shell you want – even pre-made.

The Trial

2010-05-05T20:23:00.000-06:00

PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) became an everyday thing in my life. Flash backs were a normal occurrence. At night, I struggled to go to sleep because I was in a constant state of hyper-alertness; sometimes I could feel the hair on my arms. Once I went to sleep, my dreams were interrupted by horrible nightmares that I usually could not remember. One night, I cried out in my sleep. My teen daughter came in and said, “Mom, are you okay?” I felt so badly that I had caused her a bad night’s sleep. I knew I needed to get into see a counselor, but there didn’t seem to be time.

We wanted to move all of Grandma’s things out of her apartment before Dad was released from jail, and we had no idea when that would be. The day I went up there with my Aunt was very stressful. My two younger children acted as lookouts. One watched out the front window and one watched out the back window. We were so afraid he would show up and become violent.

We packed the apartment in a hurry, taking her furniture and clothing. Anything of Dad’s that was on her furniture we placed on his bed. I called Mom and asked her if she wanted her dresser back – the one Dad had taken from her so many years before. She did, so I dumped the contents of the drawers on his bed. We left him quite the mess to clean up before he could use his bed – the only piece of furniture we didn’t take. The bed belonged to Grandma, but we connected it too much to him and left it. We forgot to go down to her basement storage locker and get the leaves to her table, but those are just things and we were in a hurry. We left the apartment relieved that he had not shown up.

Grandma missed Dad. She wanted to bail him out of jail, but we wouldn’t take her to do so. My aunt had a restraining order taken out against him which meant he couldn’t come to Grandma’s new apartment. My aunt found her an apartment in an assisted living center. She had her own studio apartment and had people around her. She had lived in her old building for over twenty years, so this was an adjustment for her. She was so cute one night. She commented on an elderly gentleman who lived in the center. She said, “Isn't he a fine looking man. Look at how straight his shoulders are.” I guess when a woman is ninety one things like straight shoulders are pretty important. One day she tried to escape with another resident. This other woman had a car and they snuck out and tried to leave. She said, “We almost got made it.” The other lady was not supposed to drive anymore.

We went to see her often, but she still worried about Dad. I told her what he had said to my daughter about her breasts. I reminded her that Dad was violent and that we wanted to keep her safe. She would call me at work and tell me she didn’t have any food. I would leave work to take her shopping, and while putting her groceries away find that everything she bought had a duplicate in the cupboard. I said, “Grandma, if you want me to come visit, I will. You don’t need to say you are out of food.”

“Well, I was worried you wouldn’t come," she said.

Dad spent sixty-two day in jail before they released him. The trial was still to come. I had been subpoenaed. We didn’t want Grandma to testify because she was so frail. The first court date would decide if we would be allowed to testify on her behalf. I was scared to death to testify, but I mustered up my courage – I didn’t want to be put in jail for not showing up. I was mentally prepared to see Dad in a courtroom with bailiffs and officers as protection. When I stepped off the elevator at the courthouse, there stood Dad. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach; I actually lost my breath. I stepped back into the elevator, closed the doors and went to a different floor. I was shaking and crying. I hurried to a bathroom to try to compose myself. My plan was to leave the bathroom, see if my cousin had arrived – if she was there, I would stay and testify. If she wasn’t there, I would leave the courthouse and go home. I was not strong enough to do this on my own. Damn the consequences – I couldn’t face him by myself.

When I left the restroom, the first person I ran into was my cousin. We were not allowed to be in the courtroom while other testimony was being given. At one point as we sat in the hall waiting to be called, Dad walked out to have a cigarette. His beautiful white hair was shaved off – he looked like an old cancer survivor. He did not make eye contact with either of us. She testified, and then I was called in. I was shaking so badly and trying not to cry. They asked me what Grandma had told me. Then they asked if this was hard for me to do. “Yes,” I answered. I told them that I had always tried to give Dad the benefit of the doubt. I had previously tried to maintain a relationship with him. I had thought my love for him would be enough, so yes it was hard. I didn’t tell the court about my memories, but the nightmares and flashbacks made me feel like a small child again – scared and wanting to hide from him.

The judge asked Dad’s attorney if he had any questions for me. The attorney began to speak, but Dad pulled on his hand, whispered something in his ear, and the attorney said, “Not at this time.”

The judge ruled that we would be able to testify on Grandma’s behalf. We were thankful. I received another summons to appear to testify. The only way I wouldn’t have to testify again would be if he entered an Alford plea which meant without pleading guilt, he acknowledged that there was enough evidence for the prosecution to convict him. We arrived at the courthouse ready to testify. I was a nervous wreck, but I didn’t want to see him get away with another crime. The jury was there. Dad was in a room with his attorney. At the last minute he took the plea deal. The jury was dismissed and we were allowed to go home. He only served the original sixty-two days for beating Grandma. He had to behave for eighteen months. I thought he should have served more time. He deserved more time. He quietly left the courthouse, went back to the apartment he had previously shared with Grandma, and did only God knows what.

I have not spoken to him since he called me from the jail. I wrote him a letter before I testified against him. I told him what I remembered about my abuse. I asked for clarification about his sickening friend. He wrote a letter professing his love for me, but peppered it with how mad he was that he had to spend sixty-two days in jail. After I testified against him, he wrote me a horrible letter cursing me and hoping for my demise. I think he wrote the nice letter hoping that I wouldn’t testify against him. The second letter contained his true feelings.

I talked to the DA about my memories. He said I had three years to press charges. He was very kind and allowed me to cry, but he said the chance of a conviction so many years after the fact was next to nothing. I opted to let it go. I wasn’t strong enough to face him in court again and watch him get away with everything he had done.

The Flashbacks Begin

2010-05-04T19:39:00.000-06:00

The following may be triggering for some. Please proceed with caution.

The memories of my abuse came back in flashes when all the right elements came together to act as triggers. Trigger one is that I was dating a man who had dark eyes (like my dad), was very controlling, and struggled with healthy boundaries. I always felt a little on edge with him. Trigger two was when my Dad made a sexual comment toward my daughter. Trigger three was the night my father was arrested for beating up his 91 year old mother.

I got the phone call while at the boyfriend’s house. My son said, “Grandpa’s been trying to get a hold of you. He is in jail and he wants you to come pick him up.”

“Why is he in jail?” I asked thinking he had been picked up for drunk driving.

“He beat up Grandma; she is in the hospital.”

“I’ll be right home,” I said.

I gave my boyfriend a kiss goodbye. He put his arms around me and said, “Maybe I’ll just keep you here,” and at that point I had a horrible flashback about one of my dad’s drug friends. Those who have endured abuse know what happened; they don’t need me to go into gory detail. For those of you who do not know, I’ll explain the part I always remembered and you can imagine the rest. Right before Mom divorced dad, he had drug parties at our house on a frequent basis while Mom was at work trying to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. Dad had a friend (I don’t recall his name) who was about 20 years old. Keep in mind he could have been older or younger, but my six year old mind thought he was about 20. He had greasy dish-water blond hair, a scraggly beard that couldn’t grow in properly, and severely pock marked skin from acne scars. His white t-shirt was spotted with dirt and sweat. He stunk. He would grab a hold of me and try to kiss me. One day he offered Dad $20 for me. Dad took the money. My flashback was about this horror of a human being and what happened after the money exchanged hands.

I felt like I was suffocating - like I was still locked close to the yucky man. I looked at my boyfriend and said, “I have to go.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I’m fine; I’ll call you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.

I wasn’t fine. I was a mess. When I arrived home, I called my sister Mary and asked, “What happened?”

Apparently Dad was standing over Grandma and screaming in her face. She told him to back off, but he kept screaming at her. Grandma tiny and frail; she stood less than five feet tall. Dad was larger and very loud. Grandma lost her temper and slapped him in the face. Dad hit her back, knocking her to the floor, breaking her ribs and tearing open her arm. He left her there. He didn't even try to help her. He unplugged all the phones and hid them, and then left the apartment in order to raid her bank account.

Over the course of three days, he let her suffer while each day he withdrew the maximum amount from her account. On the third day, Grandma was able to find a phone and call for help. An ambulance and the police were dispatched and the family was notified. It was hard for Grandma to admit that her dear sweet child, who she loved more than anything, had hurt her. The police took Dad to jail. He handed his wallet to Mary when he was arrested. She put his wallet on his dresser and didn’t even think to look inside. All of the money from Grandma’s account was in that wallet.

Dad began calling from the jail. He wanted me or Mary to come bail him out. He said, “Mary has my money. Call her and get it to bail me out. This place is horrible. I know I’ll have another heart attack if I stay here.”

I said, “I can’t come get you. I am sick and my van has broken down. Besides, Mary said she doesn't have your money.”

“That lying bitch. I handed it to her when the police took me. Take a taxi and come get me out!” he said as hiis anger escalated because I refused to come and get him.

“You need to learn to control your temper.”

“I hope you die with a rat in your mouth!” he shouted. "I'll just call someone else to come get me."

“Good luck finding someone,” I said as I hung up the phone.

I could not forgive him for hurting Grandma. I loved her more than I loved either one of my parents. Grandma was my everything. She was my normal – the person I tried to be like – my pattern of how to be an okay person. She was regal, royal, and completely undeserving of being hurt. Besides, now I was processing flashbacks that were coming more and more frequently. I remembered the abuse I had suffered at his hands and in my mind the only thing worse than hitting a child was hitting an elderly person. A child’s bones are more flexible whereas a person in their nineties has brittle bones and fragile skin. He finally stopped calling me after about a week. He said there were rats at the jail, and although I didn't express it to him, I thought it was fitting for him to be with rats so that he could be the one to die with a rat in his mouth.

Rage filled every fiber of my being. The things I remembered combined with what he did to Grandma and had done to my sisters were too much for me to take in. When I walked the halls at work – at the store – anywhere I went, I wanted to smash things to pieces. I wanted to break windows, break walls, break everything. I felt a scream deep inside me that made me afraid that if I let it out, it would never stop. I longed to go to Dad, take a razor, and X out his face – make him not real anymore. The violence I felt toward him was staggering. I am not a violent person, but I visualized going to his apartment and bashing his head against the brick wall with a giant log. I thought, “If I had a rabid dog, I would kill it, yet I know my dad is rabid and here we sit waiting for him to hurt someone else. I knew I needed help. I didn’t feel big enough to contain all the rage that boiled within me.

Yet at work, I continued to do a good job and acted completely unaffected by all the turmoil in my life. As soon as I got in my car to go home, the tears and anger would surface and remain out until the car reached my street at which point I would again compose myself so that I could appear normal to my children.

To be continued.

She Can Feel

2010-05-03T17:23:00.000-06:00

I received several comments on the post about my graduation. One comment in particular affected me in a way that surprised me. I love reading your comments – it is one of the best things about blogging. Writing in a journal is helpful, but feedback from real live people often helps advance my healing process.

This is the kind message I received this morning:

“As an aside note... thank you for talking about no-one... oh my goodness, how I can relate and how that makes absolute sense and how now I wonder whether I have a similar either alter or defense mechanism floating around... I don't know... but I've never met anyone that had similar experiences in that way or at least could voice them in a way I relate to. Thank you for sharing about no-one - who incidentally is not no-one to me.”

This comment refers to my alter named no-one. No-one’s role in my system is to numb emotions. She keeps me from getting too excited, too sad, too anything. She is happy with her name of no-one even though I wish she would pick a different name. I appreciate the protective role she plays, but she still insists that she is no-one.

I was excited to have several comments to read this morning. When I read this comment and saw that no-one was mentioned in it, no-one really got a bit excited. She felt happy that she had been acknowledged, but then the fact that she felt emotion scared her. I had to physically get up and leave the computer. I couldn’t even read the rest of my comments. No-one was crying – and she never does that. She was scared and pacing the kitchen. It took her several minutes to get back to her emotionless self, eat her breakfast, and process what had happened. No-one can feel emotion, but her role is to numb the system and keep the system safe from the danger an emotional outburst could cause. She also protects us from emotional pain and stress – but here she was completely freaked out.

Once she was back in her work mode – numbing – everything was fine for her. We could go back and read the comments again without feeling emotion.

The wonderful thing is that it feels like a breakthrough for no-one – at least the rest of the system feels that way. She can feel. As I write those three words, non-one feels scared and out of control. She is quickly trying to cover the tears and be hardened again. She is capable of feeling. She doesn’t want to be capable of feeling, but she is. That makes me happy.

This same person also commented that my system seems to work well together. They do for the most part, but yesterday I discovered a break down in the system. If someone calls and leaves me a telephone message or if I call someone from home and leave them a telephone message and then run into the person in real life somewhere, I have no recollection of the message – at all. I had this happen yesterday (again). I left a message about school for a lady who goes to my church. When I ran into her yesterday after services, she commented on my message. I had NO IDEA what she was talking about. I may need to take notes when I leave phone messages or am left messages so that I can appear more normal.

I greatly appreciate those who take the time to read this blog and those who are kind enough to let me know you were here by leaving comments and questions. Thanks for being part of my healing process.

Graduation

2010-05-02T18:55:00.000-06:00

A few days ago, I graduated from college – many years later than most people – but the victory was still sweet. I nearly decided not to walk. I completed my requirements four months ago and received my diploma three months ago. Did I really need to walk to make it official? When I saw what the cap, gown, and graduation announcements would cost, my practical side came out, and I thought of all the other things that money could buy. Luckily for me, my daughter said, “Mom you need to walk.”

When my graduation box was delivered in parts – first the announcements, then the cap, gown, and tassel, and finally the Summa Cum Laude medal, I felt excited and scared. I was unsure how many people would be there. I knew there would be a lot. When the day of the graduation came, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I tried on eight different combinations of clothing before settling on one. The stress was causing some switching. That morning until I arrived at the event center, no-one was out. No-one is an alter that numbs the system. She creates an emotional void so that I don’t get too stressed, tired, or emotional.

Many years ago when one of my best friends from the cult killed herself, no-one kept me from feeling the emotional effect of my loss. I didn’t cry. I felt anger at the funeral when the cult leaders made her funeral into an object lesson on what happens to those who leave the cult, but I didn’t cry. My boyfriend at the time dumped me because he said, “It isn’t normal to not cry. Why don’t you cry?” I informed him that I cry on my own time. I didn’t realize at the time what was happening.

When we arrived at the event center, I could feel Laura and Cat – those two are usually close by. At one point when some graduates in front of me were talking and laughing so loudly that I couldn’t concentrate on the speaker, Trina come out and shushed them. I was glad for that because Laura doesn’t talk. All through the graduation, I kept looking at the card I would give to the announcer when I crossed the platform. It had my name with both my maiden and married name on it. It had my degree and my major. Every time I read it, I felt proud of what we – as a group – had accomplished.

Soon the speakers were done and they began reading names. I followed a line of graduates to the podium. When I saw the red carpet leading up and then down a ramp, I said a small prayer that I wouldn’t stumble in my high heels and completely embarrass myself on the big screen TV that was positioned for all in the arena to see. As I walked up the red carpeted ramp, I thought of Grandma. I hoped she was there watching me. I missed her so much. I thought of the friends who had acted as catalysts by helping me find enough self confidence and courage to go back to school as an adult with only a 10th grade education. I had to finish high school and then college – first as a woman in a failing marriage with a husband who did not want her to go to school, then as a single mother taking classes as she could fit them into her life, and then finally as a woman in the crisis of dealing with the emergence of alters. Fortunately at this point in my life, I was blessed with a supportive husband, amazing adult children, a loving young child, a supportive extended family, and wonderfully encouraging friends. They say alters emerge to the host when they feel safe; I am thankful to be in a safe place.

I am indeed blessed. It took me forever because of times when I could not go to school or had to take a reduced school load because of young children, stress, work, or finances, but here I was walking across that red carpet, then shaking the hand of the Dean as he handed me an empty diploma cover, pausing at the end while my daughter snapped my pictures, and smiling not only on the outside, but clear to the inside – in every part of me. We did it!

The flowers are from some very special people in my life. Every time I look them I can see myself walking across the red carpet and the smile comes back. My daughter was right – I needed to walk.

Birds, Nest, and Trees

2010-04-29T14:52:00.003-06:00

Even though it has been snowing on and off all day, look at what is under my deck! I think spring may actually be here – I hope Old Man Winter takes the hint and goes away.

I don’t know what kind of bird this is, but it looks like we will have baby birds. I know that birds can be protective, so I hope they don’t dive bomb us while we work and play in our yard.

Last year several large birds started building nests under the deck, but we were able to remove the nests before they completed them. We don’t want the birds to pester the kids when they play outside. This year, because it has been so cold, we didn’t see this one until it was too late. My husband wanted to take it down, but I didn’t have the heart. I hope these birds will return my sappiness and leave the kids alone when they are outside. I’m quite excited; I hope I can get some pictures of the babies. It is hard to get a good angle because I have to photograph them from below.

When I was four or five years old, I was obsessed with trees and nests. I loved sitting in the canopy of a tree hidden by leaves while the gentle breeze swayed and rocked both me and the tree. Trees carry such a feeling of safety, protection, and peace. I discovered quite by accident that if I put grass into a coffee can, added water, and set it in the sun, the grass would dry hard into the shape of a nest. Because it was grass, when I added the water, it would stink to high heaven before it dried, but once it was completely dry it no longer smelled like fresh manure. When my little nest was dry, I would hold it carefully in one hand and use my other hand and elbow to climb high into a tree and tenderly place the nest in the forks of a branch.

One day, just as I was high enough to place the grass nest, I slipped. The fall seemed to happen in slow motion. The branches scratched at me at I brushed through them. I tucked the nest closer to my body to keep it safe, wondered if I would die when I hit the ground, and landed with an “oomph”. I lay dazed for several minutes. I wasn’t dead. The nest was unbroken, but my hand didn’t smell very good; I must have gripped it a little to hard on the way down, and it was still a little damp in the middle. My shoulder and arm aching, I slowly sat up and rested for a few minutes, then trembling from adrenaline and pain rose to my feet. I felt shaky, but I climbed back up that tree and placed the nest where a bird family could find it. Periodically, I climbed the trees to see if any birds had found the grass nests, but they were always empty. I wondered why they didn’t like my little nests – they looked just like the real thing.

Last year, when we pulled the partially made nests down from under our deck, I discovered that my grass nests were nothing like a real bird's nest. We gave the most finished one to my child’s kindergarten teacher. That nest had bigger pieces of vegetation on the outside, and smaller and softer pieces of vegetation on the inside. The whole nest was lined with mud throughout the layers. I didn’t know that birds knew about adobe. I can see why a nest is warm enough for the eggs to hatch yet stays cool when the weather is bad. I wish we had a video camera watching them while they built it. I would love to see how birds carry the mud. I can’t imagine that a beak would hold a lot of mud; they must have to make so many, many trips – and to think they do it all without hands.

I’ll keep you posted on our bird family.

By the way, the spring flowers are lovely - a bit snow covered, but lovely.
Bleeding hearts:

A close-up of the bleeding hearts.

Tulips ten days ago:

Tulips Today:

Do I Know You?

2010-04-28T11:21:00.000-06:00

Co-consciousness for a person with DID is communicating with alters in real time. I like co-consciousness because it makes me feel in control. It also allows me to think of several different perspectives at the same time. Without co-consciousness, people with DID fail to recognize people they should know. For example: A couple of weeks after I started teaching at a school, I ran into a man at Wal-Mart. He greeted me (and he was not the greeter). I said, “Hello,” and continued on my way.

As walked past him, he said, “Aren’t you one of our student teachers.”

I said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you without your suit.” Of course I still had no idea who he was.

He laughed, “I’ve had that happen. I’m ****** ****** - the Vice Principal.” He added, “How do you like teaching at our school? Would you consider teaching with us permanently?”

“Yes, I’d love to stay at your school.” I was embarrassed that I hadn’t recognized the VP, but he was gracious about it. When I’m at the school, my alter Trina is out front. When I am shopping, either Grown up or Glory is out.

One day I received a phone call from a teacher who needed me to cover her class for a week. Trina wasn’t out to take this call because I was out. When I ran into her at the school the next day, she said, “I’m so glad you can take my class for me next week.” I gave her a blank stare while I tried to pull the information I needed from somewhere. She looked puzzled and said, “You can teach for me next week, right?” Then everything clicked – this was the same lady I had talked to the day before – only on the phone and at home – not at the school.

“Of course I can.”

Her face brightened and she gave me a hug. “I’m so glad. I worry about leaving my kids with anyone else.”

I thought, “If you had any idea.” Although I have these lapses, I am a good teacher. When I am in the classroom, I am Trina. Trina cares only about the students. She doesn’t like the idea that the host has a husband and children. Her idea of the perfect life would be to live in an apartment with nothing else to do but create lesson plans and find ways to reach all the really hard kids. She loves to talk about her students and plan fun learning activities for them. She has no interest in any other part of our life. She was quite vain in thinking she didn’t need the system to function. If she had her way, she would take over the whole system and not let anyone else out. While in the classroom, she doesn’t even think about the body’s family unless someone asks about them.

One day Trina was out shopping for things for her students at the local thrift store. She needed things from the 60s and 70s for a history lesson. Can you believe her students had never seen a record or a record player? When she brought the record player to class, a student asked if we could play a CD on it. Trina thought this was quite delightful. Anyway, back to the store. As Trina shopped, she heard some ladies on the next aisle. Their voices sounded familiar, but she didn’t go see who they were. She finished looking on that aisle and then went to the next one. As she turned the corner, the two ladies, in unison, said, “Hey, ******* (the body’s name), what are you doing here.” They seemed really happy to see Trina.

Trina looked at them and thought, “They look familiar – where do I know them from.” The ladies came up and put their arms around Trina – hugged her. Then, like a wheel clicking into place, another alter stepped forward. “Mom, Beth, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

My sister Beth looked at me quizzically, “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I just have a lot on my mind with finals coming up and lesson planning. You know how it is.” I quickly turned the conversation to Beth’s classroom and asked how her first year of teaching was going. I helped her find the things she needed for her students. Inside, I was a mess. I had failed to recognize my own mother and sister. I was so mad at Trina for thinking she could be out on her own without anyone else to help. Trina was upset that she had nearly given the whole system away. It is one thing to not recognize a co-worker, but to not know your own mother?!?

Beth asked again as we parted, “You sure you’re okay? You seem really tired.”

“I am tired. I’ll be fine though.”

I sat in my car berating myself and telling the system that we had to have a meeting when my phone rang, “We are going to lunch. Do you want to join us?” Mom asked.

“I better get home and get my homework done. Thanks though.” In truth I needed to process what had just happened. If the system doesn’t work together, people will figure out that something is not right. The system was created as a survival mechanism. I was embarrassed and angry. We had a group meeting and we talked about how important it is to communicate with each other. Trina had not been sharing. Because of her selfishness, we failed to recognize two people from the school and our own family members. She still feels badly about this; she knows she failed us. This has helped make her a bit less cocky. She has to communicate with the system so that we don’t embarrass ourselves by not knowing people when she isn’t out. She also needs to allow someone else to be out with her when she is outside of the classroom because she doesn’t know all our people.

While having DID can be frustrating, it keeps things interesting. I know that when I call myself us or we it can be confusing, but I am not just one – I am eleven different ones all wrapped up in the same body, so it is hard for me think singularly when I am a plural. I will try to let you know when I am talking about a 3D person verses one of my alters.

Thanks for stopping by my blog. I love comments and questions. You give me hope that maybe someday we won’t be viewed as such anomalies – of course after what I wrote today – you may think I am a complete anomaly. But then again, what is “normal” anyway?

Barbecued Beef Ribs

2010-04-27T20:12:00.000-06:00

I made barbecued beef ribs for dinner tonight. I think next time, I'll add a little cayenne pepper to the recipe - maybe 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon.

Barbecued Beef Ribs
10 to 15 beef ribs (they come in slabs – I cut them apart)
¼ to ½ cup Worcestershire sauce
1 medium onion – chopped
2 Tablespoons light olive oil
2 Tablespoons brown sugar
1 cup catsup
¼ to 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)
1 Tablespoon mustard
½ cup chopped celery
1/3 cup hot pepper jelly – optional (I like some zing in my food)
2 Tablespoons vinegar
¼ cup lemon juice
½ cup water

Place ribs on broiler pan, baste with Worcestershire sauce. Broil each side just until browned – basting each time you turn.

Place in a large baking dish. In a frying pan, brown onion in olive oil; add remaining ingredients and cook slowly until flavors are blended – about 15 minutes.

Pour over ribs.

Cover and bake for 1 ½ to 2 hours. Turn ribs every 20 minutes. Remove cover and place under broiler just long enough to get a sear on the ribs – turning once. Serve.

I was in a weird mood today and served them with strawberries and sweet potatoes. Not traditional rib side dishes, but it was what I felt like eating.

Lancer

2010-04-27T09:30:00.000-06:00

You used fishing line to carefully hang it from the ceiling of my son's bedroom one week before you purposefully drove the Audi into a brick wall. The windshield bore the impressions of two heads. Who was with you? They ran away before the police ran in. Who were you taking to Hell? Or was it only you – the windshield revealing the truth of the monster within?

“I want it back,” you said of the Lancer when you didn’t die.

You never gave without taking more. The hurt of a child means nothing to you – never did – never will. I withstood your demands to save my child the hurt of thinking that grandpa loves the Lancer more then he loves him. Before you hurt Grandma, My son loved to see the giant Lancer that took up nearly a quarter of his ceiling – hung upside down so he could admire the details.

Now I have no way to return it to you. Your grandchildren hate you and no one wants the Lancer with the engine purchased as a gift to you from Mom so many, many years ago. The Lancer contains hundreds of hours of artwork, balsa, tissue, and paint patiently and lovingly poured into it by your often violent hands.

One night, in a rage against you, I nearly destroyed it. The visual image of smashing the delicate balsa, tearing the paint covered tissue, and the frame smashed beyond repair comforted me. I wanted to hurt and destroy a thing that mattered more to you than the scared faces of your hungry little daughters. I thought it would somehow make it all okay.

But I can’t destroy art, so it remains intact, with age beginning to show as putty shrinks and paint cracks; waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting to be off the ground again and loved or at least appreciated for what it is instead of what it represents.

Memory - Not Nearly as Reliable as a Scrapbook or Video

2010-04-25T20:20:00.000-06:00

My thoughts are all over the place today. I can’t decide what I should write about. I could tell you about my two favorite growing things at the old house – or about the never ending hole in the back yard of the old house. I could tell you about my thoughts on memory and share a couple of stories regarding memory. I could tell the chocolate frosting story, but I’m not sure if I can tell that one yet. I could tell you about the first time I ever saw haunts at the old house. I think I should give the old house a name – any ideas for one? Suggestions are appreciated because I’m drawing a blank. You can check here to see a picture of the house:
My Old House

The following may be triggering for some. Physical abuse is described. Proceed with caution.

Maybe while it is fresh in my mind, I will share my thoughts on memory. I just got off the phone with my older sister, Ann; we discussed what we remembered about the abuse we endured as children. I find it interesting that until I was thirty five years old, I had no recollection of my father ever hitting me. I could remember him hitting my other siblings, but not me. My aunt even asked me one time, “Did your Dad ever hit you?”

“No;” I answered, “He hit the other kids, but he never hit me.”

I felt guilty about this. Dad used to tell me that I was his favorite, so I thought that is why he hit the other kids and not me. It didn’t seem fair that I didn’t get hit, but I was glad to not be hit. Yes, I was afraid of him. Yes, I hid when he came home, but I didn’t remember him being abusive to me (in that way). I knew about one time when I thought he might have hurt me, but I had lost time, so I couldn’t recall what happened.

My dad is/was an avid gardener. If he planted one seed, two seedling would pop up (yes, I jest), but he did grow an amazing garden.

He wouldn’t let me help in the garden because he said I wasn’t big enough to not mess up. He let Ann help because she was four years older than I was. I stood at the edge of the rose garden and enviously watched Ann help with the beautiful roses. I could hardly wait to get big enough to help.

The rule of our yard was that we could play anywhere he hadn’t planted. We had a strip of ground that ran next to the driveway. He hadn’t planted this area, and I played there often. I pretended to plant. One day as I happily walked on the bare dirt, poking my stick in the ground, singing a made-up song, Dad came barreling toward me. “You G** D*** stupid little kid.” (only he used the words) “Get the %&^$ out of my garden. I just planted there. You $%^#@!& little whore. You’ve ruined everything.” I cringed as he grabbed me by the arm and marched me into the house, swearing and yelling all the way. He took me into a room – I can not recall which one. I think it was my bedroom, but in my memory it was backwards, so I am unsure. Then something happened, but to this day, I have not been shown what. This was the first time I was aware that I lost time. Whoever was forward that day has not shared the memory of what happened.

I was six years old and clearly remember being distressed that I couldn’t remember what had happened in the moments before he walked out of the room shouting, “You will stay here until I tell you you can leave.”

I thought, “Is my brain broken.” I thought of all the things I could remember. I ran through the list of holidays and memories that went back to me being a toddler, but I couldn’t grasp what had just happened. If I could remember everything else, why oh why could I not remember the last thirty minutes? It could have been less or more time – my six year old mind gave it the value of thirty minutes. I worried about this for years – until I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder – then I knew what had happened.

Memories are mysterious things. When I told my siblings that I didn’t remember Dad ever hitting me, one looked at me like I had two heads. She said, “You don’t remember when we were fighting over a chair in the rumpus room, and Dad got mad, grabbed us, threw us on my bed, and beat the hell out of us?” She had a vivid and clear memory of this, but I still don’t remember. Another sister clearly remembers him grabbing Mary and me and smacking our heads together - often. Mary and I did fight frequently. Mom said we would love each other when we grew up. I always swore that I would NEVER even like her, but Mom was right and we became good friends.

One of my clearest memories is the day Dad hit Ann right smack in the nose just because she was the unlucky person who crossed his path as he walked through the front door. I can still see the tears well up in her eyes as she struggled not to cry in order to save herself from a further beating because he said, “I didn’t hit you that hard. If you cry, I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

I remember praying, “Please don’t cry; please don’t cry.” I couldn’t bear to see my Ann get hit again. She still has no memory of that day.

When we were adults she told me about a beating I took that she always felt guilty about. When I was three or four, Ann, Mary, and I hid under a bed with Dad’s slide projector. We were not supposed to play with this "expensive" piece of equipment. Ann had the projector shining on the wall as we happily watched the slide show. Dad came in and realized immediately what we were doing. He ripped a board off of a crate of grapes. Ann remembers seeing the small nails in the end of the board. She knew what he was going to do with the board. As he came for us, self-preservation took over, and she ran as fast as she could. Because I was the youngest and slowest, he was able to grab me. He beat my legs with the board. She says she can still see the red scratches that covered my tender skin where the nails hit me. She felt guilty for running, but her response was completely normal for a child of seven or eight. The only one who did anything wrong was Dad. He completely over-reacted to us using the projector.

I still have no memory of the beating, but it is one of Ann’s most vivid memories.

One night, at age thirty five, I had a flashback as I was dropping off to sleep. In the flashback, I was being pulled out from underneath a bed. The bed sat higher than a normal bed. My hair snagged and tore in the bedsprings. The floor under the bed was linoleum, so as I was pulled, my little hands slid desperately along the floor seeking something to grab on to. The sense of dread and terror I felt was completely overwhelming. I came out of the flashback with a start. I called Ann the next day and described what I saw and felt. She said that was what happened when Dad grabbed me out from underneath the bed to beat me with the board. My little mind knew what was coming and went somewhere else. I saw and remembered the beginning, but to this day, although I still have a scar on the back of my leg from one of the nails, I do not remember the beating. I hope that I never have to remember it. Memory is mysterious. It tells us what it decides we need to know – for what ever reasons. Although memory is fallible, it is what ties us to the past and it makes us act how we do in the present.

On a side note, one day when I was at Dad’s house (as an adult) during a time when we were still on speaking terms, I borrowed the slide projector and all the slides. He and Grandma were out of town, and I was the person designated to water the plants and pick up the mail. I told him I took the projector. After I learned what he had done, I never returned the projector or slides. I felt I had paid for them with my pound of flesh. He wanted them back after I stopped communicating with him, but I didn't respond or send them back. If he could beat a child for watching a projector, he didn't deserve to have it. Now it was my turn to punish him - of course me being me, I found a punishment that was logical. When things become more important than the people we are supposed love and protect, it is time to re-evaluate our priorities. Give your kids an extra hug today – they deserve it. If you feel they don’t deserve one, it probably means they need two.

The House and Other Stuff

2010-04-24T17:32:00.002-06:00

I remember the day we moved out of our Father’s house. He wouldn’t let us take anything. Mom didn’t make a big deal about it. She told us we would go back later to get our things. We drove to a town about twenty miles away to a home the cult had found for us. Our “new” home was built in about 1860 by an early pioneer to the area. Although the neighbor kids were scared of our “haunted house,” we were excited to see our new home.

This is a picture of the home circa 1861 (meaning it was taken in 1861 - not when we lived there). The left (South) side of the house, the upstairs, and the basement were where I would spend the next eight years of my life. The right (North) side of the house had a two bedroom apartment that was lived in sometimes by outsiders and sometimes by cult members. Outsiders were renting the smaller apartment when we moved in. A girl about our age, Lena, lived there with her family. A newly married cult couple rented part of the upstairs which had been turned into a one bedroom apartment. At the time we moved into the house, we used the two large upstairs bedrooms. A short time later, my older sisters used the basement bedrooms. The windows in the basement were so tiny that if there had been a fire when we were sleeping, we surely would have died. The basement was so dark because of this that when the lights were off, our eyes never adjusted to the dark. If we woke up in the night, we could see only blackness.

That first night in the house, we slept on the floor because our beds were at our father’s house. We didn’t even have dishes. We went exploring and found some little cans on the shelves above where the washer would go which we used to eat our breakfast cereal. Later, Mom took her brothers with her to help get our belongings from Dad’s house.

Mom started dating my step dad shortly after we moved into the old house. He was very friendly. He would play and dance with us. Mom and Bob could have been married in the eyes of the law because neither of them had another spouse at this time, but the leader of the cult (the man my mother had left years before) wouldn’t allow them to legally marry. They had a spiritual ceremony that only my oldest sibling was invited to attend. Afterwards mom’s family had a big surprise party for her birthday which in hindsight I realize was a wedding reception. I don’t remember being told they were married, but I guess mom must have said something to us because shortly afterwards the babies started to come. The secrecy was one more way for the leader of this cult to make life hard for Mom. It was his way of getting back at her. If the marriage had been legal, she wouldn’t have been asked to go on welfare. He set her up for a fall, and she went along with it because she had seen how bad life was outside of the cult. She was warned, failed to listen, ended up in a horrible situation (one even worse than living in a cult), and was now back and ready to be completely obedient.

When a person leaves the cult they are told how bad the outside world is. They are also told that there are consequences for leaving – something bad will happen, and their eternal salvation is in jeopardy. I remember being told about a woman who left. One day, as the story went, she backed her car over one of her children and killed her own child. It was drilled into our heads that every time you did something against the cult or sinned in any way that a price had to be paid. The price could be paid by you, or God could take the price from someone you loved. If you told any of the cult secrets, you or someone you loved would have to pay the price – usually an injury or illness would strike. It just wasn’t worth taking a chance that something bad would happen to someone I loved. I kept my mouth shut about the cult.

We kept their secrets because of fear and because for the most part, we liked being in the order – at first anyway. The people were fun. They had that big party for my mom. There were a lot of celebrations and dances – complete with food. Unfortunately only a few of the people in the cult could actually cook a decent dish, but it was fun to play with all the children – most of which were our cousins at one level or another or both. Inbreeding makes for some interesting family trees – only more like a morning glory plant (bind weed) all wrapped around itself and strangling the host plant.

After their marriage, my step dad seemed overwhelmed by all of us. He was an orderly person, and we (including mom) were an unruly bunch. We were used to being on our own with only a slightly older sibling in charge of us. Our house was generally so cluttered and messy that we were embarrassed to have friends over. We had been in other homes and knew that not everyone lived the way we did.

Although my step dad made good money, Mom continued to work because that is what the women of this cult did. For a while, we were tended by our Aunt, but by the time I was eight or nine, we were back to watching ourselves again. Mom gave us jobs to do, but we usually waited until we heard her tires on the long gravel driveway before we did them. One day we even took the hose inside the house when a water fight got out of hand. We amused ourselves in the big house by sliding down the long staircase in boxes, playing dodge ball in the dark (inside the house), playing keep off the floor tag (which took its toll on our furniture), and hanging from the railing of the stairs and seeing how high up the stair case we dared to drop to the floor below. How we didn’t end up with broken legs or arms, I’ll never know. This was the environment our step-dad was thrown into. At the time, through the eyes of child, I was mad at him for being so playful before Mom married him and being so annoyed with us after the wedding. I thought he had tricked us all – had used us to get to Mom. I was angry with him for many, many years. Only an adult point of view would change my opinion of him.

This picture of the back of the house was taken when I was a teen. My room was behind the two top windows. Mom paid extra to rent the little upstairs apartment and had it remodeled into two bedrooms. The kitchen sink and stove were right behind my bedroom wall and still accessible. The nice part about us renting this little apartment was that now we had two bathrooms for our very large family. My windows faced West, and the afternoon sun streamed through making this a wonderful place to grow houseplants of every kind. I took advantage of the light and filled my room with living things.

I didn’t sleep well when I was a teen because I had nightmares nearly every night. To quell the nightmares, I stayed up late into the early morning hours playing solitaire on my floor until I could barely keep my eyes open. At that point, I’d turn on my nifty eight-track tape player, set the volume at barely audible, and let a Moody Blues tape play through the rest of the night just in case I woke up. The music comforted me when the nightmares came. Because of this, it was hard for me to wake up in the morning and be on time for school. I would wake up ten minutes before class, throw my clothes on, and run out the front door. One morning as I raced out the front door – nearly late for school again, some younger children who were walking to the elementary school took one look at me and ran screaming down the street, “The witch – the witch – run!” I laughed the rest of the way to school. Our house had quite the reputation as THE haunted house.

For those of you who believe in ghosts, the house was indeed haunted. For those of you who don’t believe in ghosts, I dare you to stay a week in the house and still not believe. I’ll share more about the "haunts" in another post. This house is the place I consider my childhood home. It is boarded up because of a fire, and no one has lived in it for years, but if I dream about home, this is the home I dream about. I love this house and hope someday it will be restored to what it once was. My childhood was crazy and confused, but I have happy memories from the years I lived here. The shadow you see is from a giant old apple tree that held a tree house where we spent many hours.