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.

Response to a Loving Mother

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

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!

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/

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.

Silent Footsteps Crowding Me

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

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.

The Scream

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.

School, School, School

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

A Picture is Worth . . .

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.

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.

Telling Jay - Elizabeth's Independence Day Continued

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

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

A Teaching Job

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

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

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.

Glory

“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

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.