Annie

Little One

Alone she hides in the cold white dark

shivering

until the silent scream starts and others come to shush her

trying to keep her and them safe from strangers who hurt and mar

stuffing the scream back inside before it can be heard

 – never heard outside,

choking her with bitter fear and darkness

inside a white ghost of a girl.

Glitter

She sits in the wreckage of her dreams,
Hopelessly trying to fit the shards together,
But the pieces don’t fit anymore,
So she stuffs them in her pockets and her heart,
And continues on, forgetting, until the shards bleed to be known.

In fear, she struggles to cast them away.
They hurt, but the cast clings to her – owning her,
And she owning them.
She understands that where she was one,
Now she is one of many.
Not what she once was, or what she once could have been,
But what she is now.

And the pieces glitter where there is no light.

Christmas Aftermath

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!

Never Still Applies

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

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.

I Finished My First Year!

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.

The Gift

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?”

Words from My Father

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.

Going Home Again

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.

Confusion

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.

Memory - Not Nearly as Reliable as a Scrapbook or Video

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.

Doubting Memory

I needed to process my thoughts about this post which is why I haven’t posted for a few days and why I posted safe posts (recipes) in the days before now.

I knew when I started this blog that I was putting myself out there and that people would cast their judgments upon me. I have a few family members who read this blog. Only my most trusted family members have the link to this blog and know that I am the author. I know that what I am about to post may cause hurt feelings; however, I want my trusted and loved family members to know that I am in no way angry at them. Their comments to me about this blog are part of my healing process, so I thank them for their love and tender concern for my well being.

Last week I got a call from a concerned family member about one of my posts. Because she and another family member could not remember me wearing leg braces, they assumed that I had lost it. At first this really bothered me because I did wear them. I called my mother and told her that I was talking to said family member about wearing braces and that she didn’t remember me ever wearing them. My mom of course remembered that I did wear them. She even shared with me a story that I didn’t remember. She said that I hated my shoes so much that I sailed them down the gutter and that she had been very upset with me because the shoes had been so expensive. We talked about me fighting her when she would try to put the braces on me at night. It was nice to have someone confirm this memory that was so vivid to me.

My family member did remember the story about the shoes riding down the gutter which made her feel that she could then validate the fact that I wasn’t completely mentally nuts.

I struggled until yesterday with this conversation. I thought, “Why is it that just because I have D.I.D., my memories are somehow less reliable than hers?” I thought, “What if Mom had been dead and unable to confirm my story – then would my family members think my story about wearing braces was just the imagination of a crazy person?” I was hurt and considered not writing anything else – except for recipes on my blog. I wondered if everything I wrote would now be questioned. Would I have to defend everything I wrote if someone else’s memory was considered more reliable than mine because I have D.I.D. and they do not?

As I pondered all of this, I could feel the scream settling inside my chest. My daughters know who and what this scream is. I am not able to talk further about it at this time. But anyway, I could feel myself being silenced again. The fears that were instilled, “No one will believe (hear) you if you tell,” resurfaced. I became voiceless once again. I felt unable to share my story with anyone. I even considered going in and deleting every post and then killing the blog, but with every thought, the strangled scream ached to get out – to be heard – to never be silenced again.

Two days ago, I shared how I felt with a trusted friend. He said, “You knew you were putting yourself out there, but you are strong; you can handle this.” Later that day, the epiphany came, but I was too tired to write it all down. Today, I am ready. Today I thank my concerned family members because without them being concerned for my mental health and sense of reality, I wouldn’t have come to this understanding.

I thought about my younger sister who is schizophrenic. She was an odd little girl because of abuse and perhaps the onset of her mental illness. Because of this, she became an easy target for all of us. I thought about how we, as young girls, often told people she was lying when she was telling the truth. She said what she wanted to say – everything else be damned – we felt her unabashed truth would sink us all. Her unwillingness to keep our family secrets caused us to strike out at her. She had no qualms about telling people that our mother was living polygamy. We didn’t want to go into foster care, so we would say, “Oh you know how she is; you can’t believe anything she says;” then direct at her, “You are such a liar.” Although we were children, it sickens me to think about how we treated her. We used society’s inability to accept "different” to try to make people think she was lying when in fact she was telling the truth. Society is quick to judge anyone who doesn’t think the way they do. Even people who trust me are quick to doubt me and throw me into that other world of “she is just not quite right in the head land” because I have D.I.D. They, like me, doubt the memories that come from someone who carries the mentally ill label.

I thought about how easy it is for me to doubt those who don’t think the way I do. My sister with schizophrenia has valid memories, yet because I don’t understand how her mind works, I discount everything she tells me as possibly being a figment of her imagination. I thought about the role we, as little girls, played in her continual downfall, and I mourn for her and for us – the pawns caught in a tangled web of lies and abuse.

I don’t have the answers to most of this, but I love situations that make me think – and think hard. This situation did just that. It didn’t detract from the love I have for the family members who questioned my stability when I wrote about something that had slipped their minds. I know we can’t remember everything, nor do I expect anyone to remember things from so long ago. I do know that we all have memories that are very strong for us, and yet that same memory may not have been a blip on the radar to anyone but us. This was a wake-up call for me to be less willing to call everything into question that someone with mental illness tells me. Because of this experience, in a small way, I realize how my sister must feel when people doubt all that she says.

Perhaps if we had allowed a little girl to speak instead of calling her a liar, our abuse would have ended sooner. I am so sorry for the role I played in helping to silence her cry. I can not in good conscience silence myself either, so this blog will go on.

A prayer goes out tonight that in my lifetime, our society will discover enough about how the brain works to eliminate the doubts that all of us – including me – have about those who carry the label “mentally ill”.

Plants, Trees, and other Growing Things

We made it home safely. I was greeted by the happy smiling faces of spring. It is officially here in my garden. Proof:

The daffodils opened while we were gone. They are splashed with dirt from the rain, but they are open and I feel happy looking at them. 

One of my other favorites is not yet in all their glory, but they are getting there.

The bleeding hearts are just beginning to bloom.

I promised you some pictures from Zion National Park, so here they are. If you haven't ever been, it is well worth going. My pictures do not do it justice.

This is the Great White Throne. It kind of hides even though it is gigantic. It looks almost like a ghost.

The Three Patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (from left to right)

Another beautiful formation.

As I looked at the plant life at Zion, I realized that trees and plants are similar to people.  Some, like this tree, live and aspire to great heights, achieve those heights, but still die alone.

Some get toppled over by life's storms, but still manage to grow and reach for the good in the world.

Some live life in dangerous situations. They can see the danger hanging over them, but choose to stay put. Sometimes they are so use to danger that they are comfortable being there; other times they are naive and don't know any better; still others feel they have something to prove just by existing where others can not, and some know there is danger but stay and complain and make everyone around them miserable instead of trying to do something to change their situation.

Some are curvy and others are straight - body types. This can also be compared to the artistic type verses the computer programmer type.

Even after some are dead, their legacy lives in all their adventures - their twists and turns show the richness of their lives.

Some appear interesting but upon closer examination you find . . .

they are so hollow you can see right through them.

And some have no heart left at all.

Others are afraid of what they see, so they bury their head in the sand thinking they can hide from life.

Some feel they can use the strength of others to hold them up, but then get greedy . . .

and soon . . .













They find there is nothing left for them to hold on to when what they thought would hold them up tumbles underneath their weight.

Some either begin life with a great burden on their shoulders, or . . .

perhaps that great burden landed on them at some point in their life, but they choose to do the best they can with what they have been given and grow anyway.

And finally, some because of acts of man and nature have hardship come into their lives, but they are able to send as many roots out as they need to in order to survive and thrive. This beautiful live tree can be found at the end of the paved walkway to the narrows. It has a boulder on one side, the trail and brick wall on the other, and the river eating at its roots, but still it sends out as many roots as it needs to succor the whole.

If you chance to meet a person with D.I.D., I hope you will think of this tree with all its many roots that strengthen the whole and allow it to live in an impossible situation. This tree found a way to live by creating more parts.

Safe Healthy Boundaries

Main Entry: bound·ary
Pronunciation: \ˈbau̇n-d(ə-)rē\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural bound·aries
Etymology: 2bound + 1-ary
Date: 1598: something that indicates or fixes a limit or extent (source: Merriam Webster’s online dictionary)

Boundaries are important. Not that I am huge Phil McGraw fan, but I do believe that we teach people how to treat us. I believe that ONE of the reasons I ended up in such a horrible depression was my inability to set healthy boundaries. During this time in my life, I still had a relationship with my father. I was determined to have a father in my life. The fact that my father was like a rabid dog didn’t seem to deter me from my goal. My father has no concept of honoring boundaries. The world and all its people were put here solely for his entertainment – or so he thinks.
Dad struggled to get along with his sister because she is the Queen of healthy boundaries. I hope I can continue to be more like her. Anyway, he would get into it with her, call me and ask me to fix it. I would call her and help make peace between them. He told me my role in our family was the peacemaker and I accepted what he said. He is a genius so he must know what he is talking about. Right?

Unfortunately, I fit into the classic behavior pattern of an adult survivor of childhood abuse. I had low self image. I was the daughter of an alcoholic, drug addict father and clearly had co-dependant behavior. I was determined to be the best at everything – even at my own expense. I needed to be a people pleaser in order to feel worth anything. As an adult survivor/victim, I had mastered the ability of repeating (in my own head) all the abusive words my abusers had inflicted on me in my childhood. If I felt I didn’t measure up, their words rewound and repeated as many times as I felt I deserved to hear them. My own mind continued the abuse they had started. I was like a tape recorder with all their meanness replaying through my brain. I was programmed to believe that I was less than I needed to be. I wasn’t good enough. I was a dirty drug dealer’s daughter – a slut and a whore. I was a dirty polygamist. I didn’t deserve anything better than bad. I often expected the worst and life delivered it to me like a self fulfilling prophecy.

To make up for my feelings of unworthiness, I did all I could to please others, even when pleasing them was detrimental to me. If someone called and asked, “Can you watch my kids, clean the church, make 40 pounds of potatoes, take a meal to a sick family, referee a fight between siblings, make a cake for a funeral, do some mending, make skirts for a dance recital, help a neighbor move, help with a class party, make floral arrangements for a wedding, etc, etc, etc.,” I cheerfully answered, “Yes.” But then afterwards, I often did the task begrudgingly. I knew I took on too much, but I couldn’t say no.

At the end of my first marriage, I had to begin creating healthy boundaries. It didn’t happen over night, but my time at the edge of the cliff and subsequent therapy taught me that I had to teach people how to treat me. I began with my in-laws. I refused to spend any time in their home. I was done being treated like I was evil if I spoke my mind. I am an opinionated person. Being around these people was poison to my soul. After my divorce, one of my church advisors told me that he could see that I liked to help others and be involved, but he said, “As a single working mom who is going to school, you have to say no to people. The most important thing you can do is give your time to yourself and children. Don’t feel badly if you need to say no to everyone else.” The very next night I was invited to help plan the Halloween party. It would be during midterms. I remembered the kind counsel of my leader and politely said, “No.” It felt good.

Setting healthy boundaries with my dad was harder. I was so conditioned to his vulgarity and crudeness toward me that I just chalked up his behavior to him being him. During this time, my oldest daughter seemingly developed breasts over night. When we went to visit Dad and Grandma, he took one look at her and said, “OOOwww Weee; look at the horns on her.” I was completely horrified. Dad had always been sexually inappropriate with me and I accepted it, but when he directed his filthy mind towards my daughter, I learned an important lesson: It is never okay for a father or grandfather to be sexual towards his daughter or grand daughter – not ever! That was the last time I saw my father outside of a courtroom. I could no longer stand to be around him. The magnitude of what he really was hit me hard that day.

From that day forward, I became better about boundaries. If someone crosses them, they pretty much know it right now. If someone is inappropriate with me, I say, “That is completely inappropriate,” in a very firm manner. I know that some may say that I am not as easy going as I used to be, but I am happier, and I feel safer. When I set and keep boundaries, I am less likely to have switching of alters where I lose time. We are more than willing to set safe, healthy boundaries for our children, but often we neglect to set them for ourselves and the other “adults” in our lives. Clearly defined boundaries are good; they keep us safe, and they eliminate the resentment we feel toward others when we don’t have safe boundaries.

The Wrong Solution to a Temporary Problem

The following may be triggering for some - discussion of suicide.

Two days ago one of my neighbors drove into the mountains. He took a gun with him and ended his life. He was 51 years old. He couldn’t see any other solution to stop his emotional pain. His death was discovered by some people who just happened upon him; they will now deal with the emotional strain of finding a body. His wife and children are left with grief and questions.

Many years ago, a childhood friend of mine was overcome by this same despair. She took her toddler to daycare after her older daughter to school, and then returned home and shot herself in the heart. Her step daughter found her when she came home from school. The emotional aftermath is huge for the survivors (those the suicide victim leaves behind). They are left to question why and ask, “Was it something I did or didn’t do to cause this?” They feel guilt and anger.

Some may say, “What a selfish thing to do. How could they do this to their family?” Yet I know that in most cases a person does not contemplate or attempt suicide for selfish reasons. Most who attempt suicide do so to end the overwhelming emotional pain – their pain simply becomes too great to continue on. I know this because I have been on the edge of the cliff – literally.

Toward the end of my first marriage, I was standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes, and up until that time, I had hope behind my rose colored glasses. As I washed the dishes I realized that this was a good as it was going to get. My husband who had baptized me several years before, was not going to stop drinking and partying, he was not going to go to church with our family, he was never going to take me to our temple, he was never going to want to do things with our children – as a family, and the money we needed to pull ahead would go to buy alcohol – we would never get ahead. It was hopeless. I knew that I could not go on pretending things were fine when they were broken.

I was twenty-nine years old and had been married for fourteen years. I had four children – the oldest thirteen and the youngest only three. I felt like I was trying to carry a giant bowl of marbles without the bowl; I could visualize the marbles dropping everywhere, rolling under tables, far away where I could no longer get to them. All around me people expected me to be there for them, yet they didn’t want to give anything back to me. I was the empty orange juice pitcher in the refrigerator. You know this pitcher; it is the one mom put in the fridge full of orange juice, but everyone has already used it up. They try to pour from it, find it empty and put it back in the fridge. Everyone wants the juice, but no one wants to refill it. I was that pitcher. I had nothing left to give.

At this time in my life, I did not yet know I had D.I.D. I knew I lost time once in a while, but I hadn’t yet been to a therapist. I was always proud enough and strong enough to take on my own life and that of the world, but now I was barely able to function. I was empty.

I lost time one day and then wondered why my teenagers were not home from school. I looked at the calendar to see who was bringing them home – my name was on that day. I felt sick that I had forgotten to go get them. Where was my head? I was 15 minutes late. As I raced to my car, one of the other moms pulled up and dropped off my kids. I apologized profusely, but felt that I’d failed – again.

I began losing weight. Food didn’t taste good to me and when I ate, I felt sick. At the end of two weeks, I’d lost ten pounds that I couldn’t afford to lose. My step dad was worried about me. He said to my mom, “She looks so unhappy.” I was more than unhappy; I was severely depressed. Even the sunshine could not break through the darkness that surrounded me. I felt only despair. Each day started with the prayer, “God, please help me not to kill myself today.” When I drove, I looked at concrete embankments and bridges in a whole new light. I considered how to do it. I knew that when I did it, I would make it look like an accident so that my kids wouldn’t be left with the guilt and the questions that I had when several years earlier my dad had attempted to take his life.

At this point, I decided to go with my brother to visit my sisters in a town several hours away. They lived in a beautiful canyon. My children were sad they weren’t going with me, but everyone felt that I needed a break from every stress. My husband stayed with the children so that I could get away for two days.

I liked being with my sisters, but even they could not lift my despair. Usually when we were together we celebrated with good food, but I couldn't eat. When morning came, my sister whose home I was staying at had left to take her children to school. My brother was not quite awake. He was awake enough to ask me to wait for him. I told him no, I wanted to hike and think by myself. He said, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” I assured him I was fine. He didn't know that I had a plan and to carry out my plan, I needed to be alone. He tried again to get me stay. He said, “You haven’t even had breakfast yet. Let’s eat before you go.” I told him I wasn’t hungry and hurried out the door.

I hiked about a mile up the canyon and begin climbing. After I climbed for a while, I stepped to the edge. I calculated that if I stepped off the edge at this point, I may just be injured – which meant physical pain on top of the unbearable emotional pain. I didn’t want to be a paraplegic and burden my children, so I climbed higher. When I calculated I was high enough, I stepped to the edge. I was over 100 feet up. The rocks below would do the job. Everyone would think I had slipped during my climb. It would work. I had told no one that I was considering suicide – it would never cross their minds when they discovered my body.

I stood there for a long time willing myself to take that step. I thought of my kids. I knew they would have their dad, but then I realized that if I died, he would take them to his parents to help him raise them. If that happened my daughters would never be allowed to go to college. My in-laws believed that a girl in college took the space that a boy should be in. Girls should be married and having children – not going to school. I sat down and wept. I was a failure even in this. I couldn’t even kill myself. Later I would be thankful for bad in-laws. They are the only reason I didn’t take that step. I wanted my children to know they were loved. I wanted them to know that they could do anything they set their minds to. I cried for a long time, and then hiked back down the mountain to my sister’s home.

When I got there, she asked what I had been doing. I said, “Why do you ask?”

She said, “When I was driving back from town after dropping the kids off, I had the worst feeling about you. I didn’t know what to do, so I pulled over and prayed, ‘God, whatever she is doing or thinking, keep her safe.’” I told her what had happened. She cried with me.

During the drive home, I knew I needed to prepare myself to see my children. I knew they would be happy to see me, but I still had nothing to give them. When I walked in the door, they came at me with homework, and other things that needed my signature. I failed them that day. I looked at them and said, “You have more than one parent,” and then I turned and walked right back out the door. I was frustrated that my husband had not taken care of everything while I was gone. I was mad at myself for completely over-reacting about school papers. I was mad at myself for not allowing my kids to welcome me home – even if that welcoming included – “Mom, we need you.” I couldn’t be needed when I was still empty.

I called the next day and made an appointment with a therapist. He didn’t discover my D.I.D., but he did help me heal and find hope once again. My family was wonderful to me during this time. Word got around what I had considered on that mountain. Every day, every one of my siblings called to see how I was. They didn’t need anything from me. They gave of themselves and helped me refill at a time when I desperately needed them. I was blessed that day on the edge of that cliff that I didn’t make a permanent decision fora temporary problem. I still struggle with depression on occasion but not at that level. I have wanted to “go home” but was determined to wait until my children no longer needed me. Now that I have grown children, I can see they still need me, and besides life is sweet. I’m glad I stayed.

Shopping with Shadow

I had to get a couple of things for my little boy’s school project yesterday. I could tell that an alter, Shadow, was out. She doesn’t like people. She doesn’t like to spend a lot of money either. She is about nine or ten years old, but she doesn’t want me to tell you anything else about her.

I could tell she was out because I could not go on an aisle that anyone else was one. If another person came into our aisle, we had to quickly leave that aisle. Although Shadow was annoyed when people came into “our” space, she understands that we really don’t own the aisle. Shadow loves bargains and anything shiny, sparkly, or just a bit odd.

We made our purchases at the craft store: six sheets of poster board, red and yellow paint, and little tiny round mirrors. Afterwards, I wanted to go the discount store next to the craft store. I thought, “Maybe I can find something cute to wear on our trip next week. I picked out seven things to try one. I decided to peruse the rest of the store before hitting the dressing room. I found this on clearance – of course it went right into the basket: * Things written in italics are Shadow's thoughts.

*The wings are made of green sparkly broken glass with black stuff spread in there like grout - neat huh.

And then my little boy called me and wanted to go swimming . . . right now! It was too late for me to get home and make it to the pool before they closed. He was sad. So I decided to see if there was anything I could buy for him. I bought this:

*But they were only $6 and it made him so happy! Besides, they are pajamas. It isn't like he will wear them in public.

If you know me, you know I loathe Spongebob Squarepants. I think he is rude, crude, dim-witted, and unkind. Every time my son has asked for anything Spongebob, I say, “No.” In fact the day before when I took him shopping for some spring clothing, I said no to a Spongebob shirt, a Spongebob swimsuit, and some Spongebob pajamas. I think Spongebob is hideously ugly, loud, and obnoxious. The only thing he has going for his is that he is a lovely shade of yellow - but even that draws attention to him. Yes, I believe that Spongbob is an attention whore. Yet, Shadow knew how much my child would love those pajamas. And he did love them. He was confused that I had bought them; when he is older, I’ll explain it to him. Right now he is too young to understand D.I.D.

I tried on the seven articles of clothing that were all very lacy and feminine and put them all back on the rack. I can not buy clothing when Shadow is out. Her taste is so different from everyone else’s. She finds sparkle and frill everywhere she looks and wants to put it in her pocket and take it home. I have a collection of things she has purchased. I hide these things away because I will probably never wear them or display them in my home. Sometimes she picks things that everyone in the system likes, but often she is attracted to the odd and unloved looking items.
Some of Shadow's Collection:

I don't wear silver jewelry. I can't picture myself wearing a bunny either.

*Look how the rhinestones sparkle. The hummingbird has pretty black stones, and that bunny is cute. You can wear it for Easter.  Easter is over - I didn't wear it.

*This blouse is so soft and silky and such a pretty green. I love it.

This blouse matches nothing in our closet. I haven't a clue what to wear it with.

* I love how blue these birds are. I only paid 50 cents for this picture. Isn't it pretty.

In Shadow's defense, we do collect salt and pepper shakers, but all the silver is worn off of this.

*All the silver being worn off is what makes it so cool. Think of all the dinners it sat at - all the loving hands that used it to season their food.

*These are ceramic. We could use them to put sauce in just like on Foodnetwork.

*This little dish is so bright orange. I love the curves. This makes me happy to look at it.

We have never used this dish - but I agree it is interesting.

*These were made in Holland where all the tulips are. I took the paint off of one to see what was underneath. I think I should paint them pink and put tulips on them. I really love tulips.

*I found these at a yardsale. $1 dollar each. The plate is very heavy - yes, that is a lizard on it. The bell is old and worn, but you can still see the feathers on the wings, and the bird holds the clapper in his foot.

These treasures are tucked away. We can't get rid of them until Shadow is ready to see them go. I don't mind keeping them for her. She needs to have a collection of little bright spots to bring sunshine into her life.