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.

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

St. Patricks Day - Independence Day for My Daughter

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

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


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

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

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

“Under.”

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she answered.

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

“Yes,” I sobbed.

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

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

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

To be continued.

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.

Taking Control of the Nightmares

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Trial

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Flashbacks Begin

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

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


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

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

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

“I’ll be right home,” I said.

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

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

“Are you all right?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to learn to control your temper.”

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued.

An Old Journal Entry

I've tried to write about Dad today, but I just can't do it. I was going through some old files to see if I could find something I'd written about him before and clean it up a bit for you when I found an old journal entry from nearly eleven years ago - ten years before my diagnosis. Keep in mind that at this time, I was dealing with an acute case of PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This is the first time I've read this journal entry since I wrote it and although I had no idea that I had DID at the time, with the knowledge I have now, I can clearly see that I was struggling to make sense of a brain in parts even then.

July 20, 1999:
I feel really alone tonight. I am overwhelmed again. I am so tired of being the mom and the provider and trying to keep things running smoothly here while I'm somewhere else. I don't care about dating anymore, but I get asked out often. I feel that I have to keep trying; sometimes I'm not sure why. It seems so pointless. I feel incapable of falling in love with anyone.

I was thinking today that I don't really know who I am. I put on an act for everyone around me. I act brave, quiet, sarcastic, tough, gentle, or interested in order to function. I am so good at playacting that unless you really knew me you would never know I wasn't being real. Who am I????

I've had to be so many things in order to survive that I don't know if I can get in touch with me.

But, what am I. I don't know when I am being real and when I am acting. It comes so natural that even I can't tell - unless I really think about it. I lived in a land inside my head for so many years when I was a girl. Reality was so far from me, yet glaringly in my face. It isn't normal to tune out like that. I catch myself doing it so often. I can't help it and it is hard to stay in the now.

I love my kids so much and I want to be here with them, but I am so homesick. I want to go home so badly sometimes. I'll wait though. I hope the Lord will let me stay until my children are grown. They need me so much right now. I am the only parent they have right now who can act normal. If only they knew how crazy I really am. I exist in a place that isn't here and isn't there. I am caught in between two worlds.

Maybe if I could accept the little girl and incorporate her as a part of me I'd start to get well. Sometimes I don't think I was ever her and sometimes I am so her I can't separate from the past.

I went to a fireside and the speaker (Bless his heart) said something that really hurt. He said that we could start to comprehend how much our Heavenly Father loves us because of how loved we are by our parents. I almost lost it right there. I struggle to believe that God loved me because he sent me to such a horrible childhood. My mother was loving, but neglectful. My father was Satan's spawn. I thought for years that God must hate me and that I somehow had to try to do better and be more. More what I don't know. I felt I must not be worth much because of the mess I was born into. It has taken a lot of tears and heartache to realize that my Heavenly Father does love me, and that I am okay - at least to him (I think anyway). To the rest of the world I am broken beyond repair.

I am probably the only one who understands why I can't get married. I can't drag another human being into my personal hell. It is all consuming at times. It wraps around me tightly and is very frightening. There is no man on earth who is man enough to be my man. No one will ever be able to handle what I may put them through. I am so incredibly tired. It would be nice to have another to lean on and help me through this. But I know he would leave - he wouldn't be willing to put up with this. I have a hard time dealing with it; no way would anyone stick around if they understood the extent of this garbage.

I know that I am doing better than I was last winter. But I know I have a long, long way to go before I will be anywhere close to being someone anyone else would want. I belong in the land of the misfit toys. I don't fit and I don't think I ever will fit.

I am not me. I don't know who I am. I am broken.