Response to Comments

Two visitors have posted comments and questions that I want to respond to tonight. I figure since I remain unable to talk about my dad, this is a good time to do this.
One reader comments:
“I struggle with being so interested in a story that has ultimately been one of sadness and hurt in your family, and to you.”

I don’t want anyone to struggle or feel guilty because they find my story interesting. The reason I say this is because for so many years, I was unable to break my silence – even to myself – about the truth of what happened in our home. When you read and comment on my story, it gives me a voice – the ability to speak out and say, “What happened to me was wrong. I didn’t have a voice as a child, but I have one now. I am no longer powerless.” We as a society can not turn away from things that cause hurt and sadness. To do so removes the voice of many who need to share their stories in order to reach further healing. This also gives me the opportunity to validate that same pain in others – to say to them, “You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. You matter.”

To those reading my story who have not felt the pain of being abused – temper your interest with a renewed determination to be aware. Be aware of those around you who may not have the ability to speak out or to defend themselves. If you witness the abuse of another, get involved, and please report it. I can not tell you what a difference it could have made in my life if even one person had reported what they saw. I know that sometimes the system (police, social workers) drops the ball, but it is still important to do what we can to protect the powerless. If you have a loved one who was abused, allow them to heal at their pace. Be kind and supportive to them. Let them feel the love you have for them. Listen to them and respect their right to feel how ever they feel.

Statistics show that one of every three girls will be abused in their lifetime and one of every four boys will be abused in their lifetime. Chances are huge that someone you know is a survivor of childhood abuse. They may not have developed D.I.D as a result, but if this blog helps us all to be a little less judgmental and show more love and kindness to those we come in contact with, then sharing my story is worth every minute I spend here. We have no idea what sorrows people have been through. We may not understand why sneaking up behind someone and saying “boo” may be a trigger. (I have a story about that). We may think someone is over-reacting, but unless we have walked in their shoes we simply can not understand.

The other reason I want to share my story is to help create a society where those who live with D.I.D do not have to hide their diagnosis. If my only diagnosis was PTSD, I could sign my name to this blog, but because of the stigma of D.I.D, I can not claim my own blog. I want everyone to understand that many successful people: doctors, lawyers, teachers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, business people, business owners, nurses, etc., live with this diagnosis. We are not a danger to society (generally speaking). You may have a coworker or neighbor that has D.I.D and they probably appear completely normal. My coworkers would be shocked to learn I have D.I.D. because I am a good employee. My system works hard to make sure that I appear normal.

One reader commented in regards to my old journal entry:
“I'm just curious as to how this makes you feel reading it now that you have a better understanding.”

I have mixed feelings about it. When I wrote this entry, I was under the care of a therapist. I had told the therapist about losing time, yet the therapist did not diagnose me with D.I.D. When I read the entry with 20/20 hindsight, it is easy to see that I should have been diagnosed with D.I.D. That being said, I also recognize that during that time, I was in an extremely fragile emotional state. A D.I.D. diagnosis on top of dealing with the intense flashbacks of PTSD may have been enough to send me over the edge. I thought about suicide during that time. My plan was to wait until my children were adults and then end it. The emotional trauma of the flashbacks was nearly too much to bear. I recognize that God had a plan for me. When I was diagnosed with D.I.D, I was in the best place possible. I have a supportive husband who loves all of me without question. I have the most amazing and supportive adult children a person could have. I haven’t had a flashback for a long time. I think God knew that I needed a completely unwavering support system in place before I dealt with this big scary diagnosis. I’ve heard it said that alters need to feel safe to make themselves known to the host. My family provided that safe place for me to continue my healing journey.

I cried when I read that journal entry because I could again feel my sadness and confusion, but in hindsight I understand why I was so confused about who I was. Again, I need to trust the process, and allow my system the time it needs to heal. Patience is a virtue when dealing with D.I.D.

To my child who posted, “I love you too.” To my other children who read this blog, “I love you all.”

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.

Mom part 3

A couple of months after her mother died, Mom began dating John again. Because she belonged to a secret society and John did not, her family did not want her to marry John. She couldn’t even tell him that her father was a polygamist.


She writes in her journal:
I started going with John again and the courtship grew. Things were getting harder and harder to break up with him. We had fun, only after Sunday night I knew I would have to quit going with him, and I didn’t know how to tell him.


Grandma is on grapes so I went in to stay and help her. Grandpa was there so he helped me write a letter to John and I mailed it Thursday. This is what the letter said:


Dear John,


I guess I have put off writing this letter too long because I did not want to hurt you, but I have known for a long time that the things you are planning could never be for us. While I respect you and prize your friendship, the further this has gone the more I realize how impossible it would be for us to carry out those plans because I realize that I could never love you in a way to make a happy home. So I would be doing a rank injustice not only to you but to your family if I should pretend something I could never feel.

Aside from all this since my Mother left us her passing has left a responsibility on my shoulders that I cannot shift onto someone else. My sisters are in desperate need of my sincere love and service until such a time as some of them are old enough to take over. I hope and pray that I am big enough not to let them down. Also I am in the hopes you and your mother understand.

When I get alone and to myself I have been grieved to know that there have been those who would entertain and spread false rumors to injure and attempt to ruin the reputation of my father. He has been so wonderful and fine, and my love for him has been so deep that I could never join myself with any of those who are against him, especially at this time when I see from day to day the marks of loneliness and grief which are so evident to me and the other children. Because my mother was taken so suddenly away, I couldn’t live with myself knowing I had done something to add to his load instead of placing my efforts and life where they would make it lighter.

Forgive me if I appear to have been inconsistent, hoping perhaps it might have been otherwise, but I know now at last, so I would appreciate it if you would not come to see me again as this is my final decision.


Yours Respectfully,
 (of course she signed her name, but I’m not putting her name here)

I haven’t seen him since, although I miss him. He is so nice; he told his sister that if I changed my mind to tell me he still loves me and wants to marry me.

The sad thing is that Mom talks about people trying to ruin her father’s reputation with lies, but the lies were the truth, but in this cult, the members are taught to never tell an outsider about what happens on the inside.

Grandma’s dying wish was for my mother to marry Grandma’s brother (yes, mom’s uncle). Mom was seventeen when her mother told her she wanted her to marry her uncle who was now the prophet of their cult. Mom worried about it – a lot.

She really felt pressure to marry him after Grandma died. Her parents always encouraged her to make her own decisions even if they were stupid decisions. She felt pressure because she believed she was letting her mother down if she didn’t marry him. Her two older sisters had married him, and she knew her mother wanted her to join the same family they had joined. Her uncle believed that his family carried the blood line of Christ and that it was important to keep that bloodline as pure as possible. For this organization, incest had become a religious tenent.

She felt she had fooled around enough and it was time to do what her mama wanted. She made a pink dress to wear to her wedding. The day of the wedding came, and mom thought, “I’ve just got to get through this.” She wasn’t scared; she was sad. She didn’t know or love him as a man; she worshipped him as her prophet. She had never even had a conversation with him – yet she was planning on becoming his fourth wife. He had asked for her, and he probably thought he was saving her soul by marrying her.

Mom writes: Today marks a day of my life that I will always remember. It was Monday night; I had no thrill and felt nothing. Maybe in years to come I will have joy. I hope so.

On the wedding night, her uncle kissed her, got a phone call, and told her he would come back another day. She took off her pink dress and never wore the hated dress again. On a rotating schedule about every two weeks, he would come to see her. He slept on his side of the bed, and she slept on hers. He took her on a business trip – they kissed and hugged, but the marriage was still unconsummated. She wanted children, so one night she decided to take the bull by the horns. She made the room nice and put perfume on the pillow. He ate dinner with her and two sisters. They went on a walk and held hands. She put her happy face on, tried to talk to him, and be nice, but she just felt panicky.

In the bedroom she gritted her teeth as he kissed her. His hand started moving down and she came unglued. She said, “Stop, stop,” and pushed him away. She hurried out of the bed and ran down stairs. He went back to his first wife. She cried and felt like a failure. He stopped coming to see her. She knew it was over – and she was relieved. Because Mom had been raped at age ten, she believed that she was evil and that sex was evil. She couldn’t have sex with her prophet husband because she didn’t think he was evil. She didn’t think she should do evil things with a prophet. Although rape is a terrible thing and I wish she had not been raped, I am thankful that she could not consummate her marriage to her uncle. I am thankful I am not inbred.

Mom began dating again while she was still spiritually married to her uncle. One afternoon, her Grandfather and Grandmother came out to talk to her during a date with a young man. She ended her date quickly so she could meet with them. Grandfather asked, “Why aren’t you able to talk to your uncle and work things out?”

“I don’t know why, but I just can’t talk to him,” she answered. Although they could not help resolve her problems with her uncle, she felt good that they were interested in her welfare.

Mom was attending Beauty School. Her school had a beauty show where the students modeled different hair colors. Mom modeled Miss Clairol Silver. She wore a black strapless dress with a silver banner that read, “Miss Clairol,” as she promenaded on the stage. In the audience that night was Mom’s date and his friend – my father. Mom saw her date talking to a pretty girl, and she angrily believed that he was propositioning one of her classmates, but in reality he was trying to find a date for my father. Dad asked her if she needed a ride home and she said, “Yes.” She thought he was nice looking, and she was attracted to him. He had thick curly black hair, dark brown eyes, and a nice tan. He said, “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.” He drove her home.

When Dad dropped her off, some of her cousins were on the porch. Dad said, “How ya’ll doing?”

“Are you a n*****,” they asked.

“Shor am,” he laughed.

Some time later, Mom’s aunt (her father’s second wife) came to her and said, “I heard that he is black. Is this true?”

“No,” Mom answered.

This rumor, started by an innocent joke, would resurface later in an attempt to hurt Mom’s standing and that of her daughters’ in the cult. Racial purity is very important to this cult. The members of this cult are prejudiced toward anyone of Hispanic, Italian, Pacific Islander, Asian, or African American descent.

When Mom and Dad decided to marry less than three months after meeting, her Grandmother (her mother’s and her uncle’s mother) told her she needed to get her marriage to her uncle annulled. Mom didn’t have a clue how one would go about annulling a spirit union. They had not been married legally. Grandmother said that she would take care of it. She called the uncle, and he came over. They stood in the front room and dissolved the marriage in front of God and his witnesses. Mom was grateful to her grandmother for taking care of that for her.

Mom’s grandmother (her mother’s mother) didn’t worry about food the way Mama did. When mom was small, her grandmother said, “Let her have sugar on her tomatoes – it isn’t going to hurt her.” Sugar was forbidden in the cult. Her Grandmother developed breast cancer, and her love of forbidden foods was blamed for her cancer. Mom often stayed with her to care for her. Mom slept with her, but Grandmother didn’t sleep; she prayed all night long because she was in too much pain to sleep. Her Grandmother had a hard time with polygamy. She was a blunt woman and did not have a great love (or like for that matter) for her sister wife. Grandmother was strong willed and stubborn.

During the time she cared for her grandmother, Mom made the veil for her wedding to Dad, but she needed a wedding dress. She had to find something tiny (she was less than five feet tall and weighed about 90 pounds) and inexpensive. She found a tea length ivory dress that was set with rhinestones with a price tag of nine dollars. She liked the fit, but because she was so tiny, it still fell off her shoulders. She used to make all of her clothes so they would fit. She said in that time period it was very common for a woman to not have a traditional wedding dress.
Mom said that Dad was a rebel. He felt Mom was a feather in his cap because he had stolen her away from the “Big Leader.” She was very happy to be married to him. One day as she pushed her first baby in her stroller, she felt such happiness, but then she had a premonition that her happiness with Dad would not last. She felt so badly. She thought, “What is going to happen – I love my life.”

The flashbacks about her rape were not an issue in her physical relationship with Dad. She believed that Dad was her spiritual equal – she believed they were both evil. She was evil for leaving the cult and her prophet husband; Dad was evil because he was an outsider.

Mom’s Life continued

The following may be triggering for some.



When Mom was nine or ten, her Uncle took in an old man named Tom who was about 50 or so. He was balding and brought candies, goodies, and gifts for the children. Tom asked Mom if she wanted to go for a walk with him. He took her to the tents and raped her. She spent the better part of a year staying away from Tom. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone what had happened. She knew she needed to tell so that he could be stopped. She worried he would hurt other girls. She also worried that she would be damned to hell and that she was diseased from the encounter. One night she prayed for hours that she could be forgiven. Shortly after that night she told Grandma what had happened. After Mom told, Tom was kicked out the community. She thinks he raped many of the little girls in the cult. He was never reported to the authorities. At that time in history, rapes were buried not reported.

When Mom was a girl, her father had two wives. The leader of their community (one of Mom's uncles)  had five wives. One of his wives died from the effects of childbirth. He adored this young wife and was devastated by her death. After she was buried, he would go to her grave site, dig up her body, and hold her tenderly in his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. Now she had not been embalmed, so she must have been getting pretty foul. He knew he couldn’t keep doing this, so the last time he dug her up, he broke off one of her fingers and removed all the flesh from the bones. He carried these bones in his pocket until his own death. When nervous or stressed, he would rub the bones together.

As children, Mom and her siblings were hungry. She would take an apple or orange to school for lunch, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy her hunger. After school when she was about fifteen and worked at the store owned by the cult, she took money out of the till to buy candy bars because she was so hungry. She told Grandma about it, so Grandma decided to let the kids get school lunches.

When Mom was about fifteen, a house was built for her mother. They were finally able to move out of the tents. Mom said, “The new house was like being in heaven.” Grandma didn’t like the floor plan of the house. The builder had not listened to her wishes at all, but it was better than living in the tents. After ten years in the tents, they were eager to be back in a real house.

Mom had an uncle who was schizophrenic. He was a year or two older than Mom. When he was nineteen or twenty his mental illness became acute. They were friends and palled around together. He joined the military, but was released with a dishonorable discharge. He was placed in the state hospital, but escaped. It was probably the military that first recognize he was mentally ill. When he was twenty-three or twenty-four, he went to his little brother’s grave -a toddler who had been hit by a truck. At his baby brother’s grave, he killed himself with a shotgun.

As I mentioned before, my grandmother was probably anorexic before the term was common.

My mother writes in her diary:

Entry one:
Today is my nineteenth birthday. I am on a grape diet 18th day. Mama is still on her grape diet. She is really weak. Last night she was really sick. My sisters are here with us. Tonight she is feeling better, so I was able to go on a date, but I came home early because Mama wasn’t feeling well.

The next day:
I went to work and after work came home. Mama is still weak but feeling better. I talked with some friends for a while, and then I went in the house. I went to kiss Mama goodnight and she kissed me 18 times and then said, “You’re 19 aren’t you?” and then kissed me once more and said, “how time flies.”

The next day:
I have a date with John tonight. He will get me at 8:30 after work. My sister called to tell me to come home instead of going out so I did. Mama is really sick. She went out in her bathing suit to get some sunshine all day and she has been drinking lemon water. When I got home Mama was covered with blankets to get her warm. We worked with her all night long, rubbing her hands, head, and feet, but that next morning she left us.

The next day:
They came and took her to the mortuary, leaving a feeling there that is impossible to shake. People brought gifts and we had a lot of company. It’s hard to think straight. I broke my diet and yet I am not hungry. No one can stand to even look at grapes. We gave a lot of the grapes to people who cleaned our house for us. A friend brought us a crate of hand picked peaches. The feeling of shock and sorrow hangs heavy – a feeling that is indescribable.

The next day:
More company and John came down to see me. I told him I couldn’t see him anymore. He felt hurt but Daddy was glad.

The next day:
Day before the funeral and viewing.

The next day:
The funeral, it was a beautiful one with lots of flowers.

Two days later:
Life goes on, but much slower and harder. We can’t seem to adjust. The feeling is still there. Each day it gets worse because now we realize how much she meant to us and how much we miss her.

While in her early forties, my Grandma’s obsession with food had cost her her life. She left behind many young children. My mother was one of the older girls - and she was only nineteen when her beloved mother died.

My Heart is Full

I may not have been blessed with parents who protected me, but God sent me something even better – children who not only keep me grounded – but who do all they can to protect me. My children know I have a blog and they read it. One of my children called me tonight; she was worried about what would happen if someone figured out this blog belongs to me – like the six degrees of separation theory. I think she is more worried than I am, and it feels so good to have my child want to keep me safe. I am so thankful for my children and the love and joy they bring into my life.

My daughter and I talked about society’s attitudes toward mental illnesses and our hope that someday, people will be more accepting towards those of us who struggle with minds that are not “normal” (whatever that is). I said, “I’m sad that DID is considered a mental illness because I don’t feel mentally ill; in fact, I sometimes feel like I have super powers.” I should probably clarify that for those of you who don’t know me.

When I first suspected that something was not “normal” with my mind, I did feel crazy and broken and incredibly confused, but since I’ve learned more about how my mind works – thanks to therapy, research, a wonderful website for those who have DID, and a book called I am More Than One by Jane Wegscheider Hyman. If you have DID, I recommend this book. I haven’t finished reading it yet, but it has helped me understand the brain processes of DID. Now that my alters are communicating with each other, often more than one is out at once. It is a blessing to be fed several points of view before making a decision. Sometimes an alter will notice something that the person out didn’t see and comment internally on it which helps us see things that might have been missed. So DID can feel like having more than one brain going. I never have to be lonely either. :)

Before I understood that brain process, I felt crazy – like my soul had been split into pieces or that I was possessed by other spirits or beings because they felt so different from me. Now that I understand that they are another part of my brain – they still feel different, but I know they were all created to keep me safe. They protect me the same way my 3D kids protect me.

About a year ago, I had a huge awakening. I had spent a month constantly worrying about who was forward (which alter was out) so much so that I couldn’t enjoy life because of the worry that if the wrong alter was out, I could appear crazy to the rest of the world. I went for a walk, enjoyed nature and the stirrings of spring, and watched the birds and ducks. The walk calmed me, and I thought about how all the parts of me were like my children. They were all created by me. Their roles are to protect me and to make me appear normal to the world. I thought about them in relationship to my 3D children. My 3D children were each created with love, and my end goal for them was that they become positive members of society – essentially the same goal as for my alters. I thought of each of my children and their love for me; each of them would defend me and do all they could to protect me. They represent me and the teachings of our home well. They are loving and compassionate people. I thought further that if I could trust my 3D children who are separate individuals to protect me, shouldn’t I be able to trust my alters, who are parts of me, to keep me safe? Instead of focusing so much energy on figuring out who is out, I need to allow whoever is out to use that energy to represent me to the best of their ability. I need to allow them to do the job they were created to do. As my cyber DID friends tell me, “Trust the process.” I am blessed to have supportive people in my life, in my mind, and online. You all fill my heart.

The Story Begins

My mother’s parents were raised LDS. Unfortunately, several years before my mother was born, they became disaffected with the leaders of the LDS faith because they (my grandparents) believed the LDS leaders had gone astray when they set aside the teaching of plural marriage. Two years before her birth, my grandmother’s family created their own religion that continued the practices of fundamentalist Mormonism. This was during the time of the Great Depression when many people came together to form transcendental societies. A transcendental society is when people come together, pool their resources for the good of the group, and live together in a community with each person contributing their knowledge and skills for the good of the whole. Other than the religious aspect, what they were doing was not unusual considering the state of the national economy.
As Mom and I talked about her life, one memory sparked another and we were off talking about different times and places, but all the memories are important because they are what make my mother who she is. Memories are fallible, but often the emotions behind the memories are more important than historical accuracy. We may not always remember the details, but we remember how we felt.

The “Order” was started by her mother’s brother who had a vision after he fasted in the mountains. He believed that an angel came to him and gave him the keys to the priesthood. He believed that because the Mormon Church had stopped living polygamy that they no longer held the keys to the true gospel. He believed that the people who needed to find the order would find them. He did not believe in sending missionaries to seek out converts. Of course if a person goes without food long enough, I’m sure they could see and believe just about anything.

Grandma felt prompted that she and her husband were supposed to Bountiful, Utah. Her father was working at the rail-road – a good job, but left it to join the order. He provided the financial backing for the order with what little he brought with him. All they had was the money and food storage that he brought with him.

When Mom turned nine months old, Grandma documents this in her journal. She doesn’t say another word about her, but the 9 month milestone was important for her to note because her second daughter died at 7 ½ months of age. It was the first thing she recorded that day. When Mom was just over a year old they moved to a farm. She remembers going with her two older sisters to take milk from their cow to some friends. They had to walk through pastures to get there. As they walked across a farm, the big gray pigs would chase them. The pigs were bigger than the little girls. Mom was about three years old at this time. She said, “The pigs taught me how to be a fast runner; I was so scared of them.” One day as the pigs pounded after them, she fell and skinned her knee. The friend wanted to clean the wound and put salve on it, but mom believed that the wound wouldn’t heal unless her own mother doctored the wound.

Mom’s family moved to another small town. They were out of money. The leader of their group decided they would live united order. This meant that everything everyone had was to be used for the common good. No one owned anything – everything was put into the common pot and used for the good of all. He decided that everything materialistic would be destroyed. Nearly every photograph was burned. As an avid scrapbooker and historian, this makes me sick. Only two or three picture of my mother survived from when she was young. No pictures of Grandma’s little baby that died survived this sacrifice to God.

Because they lacked money, the people of the order lived in tents. They build the tents out of two by fours, shipping crates, and cardboard. This is where my mother lived until she was fifteen years old. The wooden shipping crates were nailed onto the outside of the two by fours. The cardboard was used as insulation on the inside of the walls. Every inch of inside wall was covered with cardboard boxes. Mom learned how to read by reading the walls: fragile, handle with care, this side up, do not drop, were the first words she learned to read.

Her daddy was a cobbler. He went door to door gathering shoes to repair. Living in the tents was just something they had to do – they were broke. The kids spent time at the dump looking for empty peanut butter jars that hadn’t been completely cleaned out. When one was found they shared the remnants of another man’s garbage.

On nights when the kids went to bed by nine, her mother told them stories from her own bed. The kids had two double beds where they slept three to a bed. Grandma was a good story teller. The tents were cold. Winters in their town were harsh with a lot of snow and cutting winds. They warmed themselves by the wood stove. The children stood with their backs to the fire, and then they would turn and warm their fronts. They would get the stove going so hot that the ceiling would catch fire. They would quickly form a bucket brigade to put the fire out before it consumed the tent. Panic helped them move quickly, because if the tents burned down, they wouldn’t have a place to live.

When the rains came, Grandma put pans and glasses around to catch the water. As the water ting, ting, tinged, Grandma said, “The rain makes beautiful music for us.” I can see were my mother got her positive attitude. Grandma was an accomplished pianist – I’ll bet she missed having a piano. Mom said that one day a hair tarantula, as big as a saucer ran across the living room floor. To the relief of the squealing little girls, Grandpa put a big bowl over it. “I don’t know what he did with it, but he took care of it,” Mom said.

When one lives in tents, they have to adjust to having wildlife life with them. Mice were common. They set traps to kill them. Mice bring their own predators. One day eight year old Mom was looking for some underwear in her chest of drawers. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, her room was dark. There was some light coming in through the high two foot by two foot window, so she didn’t bother to turn on a light. Mom opened the drawers, felt around for something silky, and grabbed the first thing she felt that was silky. To her horror, she held up not her silky underwear, but a five foot blow snake. She screamed, dropped the snake, fell into a heap on her bed. Her brother ran in and saved the day. He took the snake outside. The poor snake was probably as scared as she was, but this began her life long fear of snakes. She learned that it was important to open all drawers carefully and slowly, and only when the lights were on.

The tents had taken on the form of houses, but because they started as tents, they were still called tents. They now had a big kitchen with one small window and a tiny front room with no windows. Grandma loved sunshine, so one day she decided she would have a window in her front room. She got a saw and cut a huge hole into the wall. When Grandpa came home, he said, “What are you going to do?”

“We are going to buy a window,” Grandma answered.

Instead of buying a window, someone at the print shop had discarded one that was just the right size to fill the hole she cut. They made it into a sliding door and stepped over the eight inches of wall that was left to get inside.

I want you to have a glimpse of Mom’s childhood to understand why she did what she did when she married my dad. Mom’s family was poor like many were in our country at this time, but they were under the illusion that they were living God’s will. What her uncle, the prophet of their religion, said was law. He said that God wanted the children to sleep without pajamas, so the children went cold at night until Grandma could change his mind. He told his own wife to wash their baby in icy water with a scrub brush to please God. He told her to feed the baby strawberries to please God. Of course the baby got sick. My own Grandmother was obsessed with food and was probably one of the first anorexics in the world. Even when they had food she and the children went hungry because she didn’t believe in eating more than one food at a meal. She records in her journal that my Grandfather was very concerned about this and made her give the children more food. My ancestors were blindly following the teachings of a man who was probably mentally ill. My Grandfather went along with it, I believe, because he was completely obsessed with his beautiful wife. I wish that he could have stood up to her and said, “We are not going to live this way.” I could be wrong about him, but I worked with him when I was a girl and he was a kind soul. He was the person who told me to leave this cult when I was fifteen years old. Although it was too late for him, he helped me get to safety.

We often think our decisions only affect us, but the choices we make can effect generations to come.

Sorting it Out

One of my biggest dreams is to someday be a published writer. I have a couple of adolescent novels in the works. Parts of them are down on paper and parts of them are still trapped inside my head. The main reason the stories stay trapped is because the story of me keeps them there. I feel that if I don’t write my story – the one of all my parts – the fiction will stay inside. What keeps me from writing my story? A lot of things keep me silent.


I struggle with where to start my story because it begins before my birth. The story begins with decisions made by not only my mother and father but by my grandparents as well. The whole thing is so convoluted. The lives of my grandparents trapped my mother, my sisters, and myself into a web of lies and cult mindset that kept me tightly in place until I was twenty-one years old. Perhaps my life would be better told as a series of short stories because it is so many different lives. Since the story involves so many others, who really owns the story, or more importantly, who is willing to claim it?

Usually, an author is proud to claim their story. Unfortunately, society is not understanding of Dissociative Identity Disorder. I can’t claim my life story. Doing so would probably mean that I would never work in a school again even though I am a good teacher. Society views DID through the lens of Hollywood’s portrayals. Many people who have DID don’t even know they have it. I didn’t know for sure about my DID until I was 45 years old. I had suspected for several years, but until my alters felt safe enough to start communicating with me, even I was unaware. In hindsight, people in my trusted circle have said that some of my behaviors now make sense. The role of the system is to make the person with DID appear normal. If the system works well, even the subject can be kept in the dark. Hollywood’s portrayal of DID is often unfairly negative.

As you can see, my story will have to remain anonymous if I plan to live a relatively normal life. Do I put my story out there and risk being exposed as a multiple, or do I keep my story in my head and never write anything else either? If I put my story in a blog, I can publish it anonymously without fear of society judging me. Maybe someday you will read an adolescent novel and you will wonder – is it hers?

Where did Everyone Go?

I’m having one of those days where it feels like everyone else (inside) is missing. When I can’t hear or feel them, it makes it hard for me to feel anything. I feel like a shell walking around waiting for someone else to wake up so I can be someone. I feel this way because yesterday, I used most of my energy. I taught all day, and at the end of the day was offered a long term sub position in a subject I am not certified in.

I love the idea of having my own students and classroom. I told the principal I would think it over and let her know this morning. I looked at all the pros and cons, looked at the state core for the subject, but in the end felt that I would be letting the students down by not knowing the content. I called the principal this morning, expressed my worries, and turned the down the position. Now I feel guilty.

I wish I could be what the principal needed. I try to be all things for all people, but I can’t fake education that I don’t have (or even want to have). It would also be very hard to enter the grades for over 200 students for this week and end of quarter which is in two days. All the alters were stressed over this decision. We don’t like to fail. Some wanted us to do it – just for the challenge, but the sensible ones wanted us to use caution and just say, “no!” So today I am walking around with everyone resting and not really coming forward. Today I am not quite myself because my alters are silent. I made it through the day and I even made bread, brown rice, brussel sprouts, and lemon chicken for dinner. I over cooked the chicken just a bit because I didn't look at the recipe - just went from memory. It would have gotten me chopped if I was on Food Network's Chopped. Things turn out better when it isn’t just me (the host of all my parts) doing the work.

Lemon Chicken
6 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves - cut in thirds
1 cup lemon juice
1 teaspoon parsley flakes
1 tablespoon sesame seeds – add to crushed corn flakes
2 cups crushed corn flakes
½ cup light olive oil

Put chicken breasts in bowl, add lemon juice and parsley - cover and refrigerate over night. Dip each piece of chicken in melted butter or olive oil and coat with corn flakes and sesame seeds. Reserve lemon juice mixture for sauce. Spray 11 X 15 baking dish with Pam. Arrange chicken in single layer in a baking dish and bake uncovered at 375 for 50 minutes.

Lemon Sauce:
3/4 cup sugar
3 Tablespoons cornstarch
2 cups water
reserved lemon juice from chicken
1/4 cup additional lemon juice

In sauce pan mix sugar and cornstarch. Stir in water and lemon juice. Heat and stir constantly until thickened. Serve over chicken.

I used the same bread recipe as the white bread from a couple of days ago except I substitued two cups of whole wheat flour for two cups of the white flour. It was just as yummy.

Shadows are out Today

The following may be triggering for some.

I’ve struggled with my relationship with my mother. I struggle to write about it because we are all still trying to figure it out. The whole situation just feels like one big muddle in my mind, so I’ve asked Laura – the perfect one – if she would help us write about it.

First, let me introduce Laura. Laura was created when I was about five years old. She is the other half of Cat (another alter who I will introduce later). Laura is between seven and nine years old. She has thick dark hair that hangs straight down to her waist, pretty blue eyes, and a straight nose. She is slender and perfectly proportioned. Her teeth are white, and unlike most children her age, she is not missing any. She prefers to wear blue and white over any other colors. She is very smart; she writes, cooks, and gardens, but she does not speak. She is smart enough to communicate without using spoken words. She never gets dirty or gets into trouble – ever. She walks with a quiet step. She has a calm soothing spirit and often comforts those around her – both on the inside and the outside. The only emotions she is able to feel are peace, compassion, and fear. She doesn’t get angry, and when she feels fear, she hides away until things are safe because she doesn’t like being afraid. She knows how to be quietly invisible when necessary. I wish I had an alter who was an artist, so I could draw her portrait.

My mother was the good parent of the two I was blessed with. My father was a monster and is the reason I became a multiple. Because my dad was so awful, Mom, in comparison, seemed so good. She is kind, she always tries to be nice, she tells people the words she thinks they want to hear, but she isn’t honest – not with herself or her children. The part of her that we are struggling with the most is the fact that she refuses to ever take a stand. She is a fence sitter who always tries to please everyone around her. The problem with this is that she ends up pleasing only the people who have not seen through this exercise. I have no idea what she holds dear or believes in.

The other issue I have with Mom is that she failed to protect us. I understand that a mother can not protect her children from everything in life. I understand that she was unaware of the severity of the abuse that went on in our home. I blame only my father for his actions – yet she was emotionally detached as a mother. She worked too many hours and failed to provide for our basic needs. As children we went hungry (mostly because of dad), we went without adequate supervision (her fault), we looked like ragamuffins with tangled hair and dirty worn out clothing, and we often went without needed underclothes and stockings. Our home was a mess and even when we had enough food, our diets were unbalanced as she went on food jags of one type or another. Although she read to us most nights, loved us, and helped us see that we were smart enough to accomplish anything we set our minds to, she failed to provide for our other basic needs. Still she was the good parent of the two.

These two issues create the conflict that causes us to feel detached from her. These many things built up until the last straw came yesterday (of course there is always another straw waiting to fall). A few days ago a friend of mine called and said, “Your dad’s number came up on my caller ID. When I answered the phone, it was your nephew (he lives with my dad), calling to see if he could do a sales presentation.” My friend had found it strange to see my father’s name and number on his phone. I was thankful that my nephew didn’t have my phone number, because I never wanted to see my dad’s information on my caller ID. I haven’t seen or spoken to my father in over eleven years - the last time being in a courtroom when I testified against him for beating up my grandmother.

Fast forward to yesterday when my phone rang and clearly presented my father’s name and phone number. Although I knew it was probably my nephew, there was no way in hell that I was going to answer the phone and chance that it could be my dad. Later that day, my nephew called my two adult children. I asked my daughter where he had gotten our numbers and she said, “Grandma gave them to him.”

So I ask (in my head), “Mom in what universe did you think I would be okay with seeing my rapist’s name and phone number on my caller ID? When he asked for my phone number, couldn’t you have said (especially since you know he lives with my dad), ‘Why don’t you wait and call her from my phone.’” She gave me no heads-up; perhaps she could have said to me, “Hey, nephew is selling a new product. I gave him your phone number, so don’t freak out when you see your dad’s information on your phone.” Instead she did nothing but expect her daughter to deal with the aftermath of her insensitivity. She doesn’t consider the consequences of her actions.

I talked to one of my 3D (real life) sisters and asked if I should say anything to mom. My husband thinks I should let it go because Mom is old. My sister said that she has confronted Mom about things. I asked her if it did any good or changed Mom’s behavior in any way. She said, “No, it didn’t change a thing.” So perhaps I will vent here, and if I say anything to mom, it will be, “I’m sure glad my friend called and told me about nephew calling him so that I didn’t completely freak out (verses the partial freak out you are all witnessing) when I saw Dad’s information on my phone.”

Perhaps it is enough that she gave me the ability to seek higher and gave me the belief that I am a capable human being. Do children really need clothing with intact crotches and stockings? Is adequate supervision and food really necessary? Perhaps it was unfair of me to put her on an unreachable pedestal – it only makes her more broken to me when she falls trying to stay perched there. The littles in me are still saddened when she fails to protect us, but the adults in me realize that we can protect ourselves. Perhaps I will never figure out how to have a relationship with this woman who I do not understand.

Without the sun there would be no shadows, which means that even when I have a shadow day, the sun must still be there waiting patiently to once again brighten and warm my face.

Feed the Littles

I wrote this post last night after dinner.

If you have DID or are familiar with it, you know that littles are the parts, alters, or others who are still babies or children. Alters need the attention and care they didn’t get when the host (the body) was a child. Every person with DID has what is called a system. Each system is unique. DID is a creative coping mechanism that the abused child creates. Because the abuse is severe, alters are created for the sole purpose of helping the host survive the trauma. The child can switch to an alter that was created to deal with the abuse and keep their own identity/mind/self safe. Each alter is created for a specific purpose; they have a role or job. My system has five littles that I am aware of. When I was first diagnosed with DID, I thought there was just me and one child alter. However, as my healing progresses and my alters feel safe, they make themselves known to me. As they become known to me, we can often share co-consciousness which eliminates me losing time when I switch.

When I was a child, we (my sisters, mother, and I) went hungry often. Because of this, I love food and I love to cook. When I am stressed, I find it comforting to feed not only myself, but also my littles. When I take care of my littles by doing things that I know they will like, they learn to trust me which promotes healing and co-consciousness. Some therapists feel that a person with DID is not healed until they have integrated all their parts, but for me, integration is not my goal – co-consciousness is my goal. I hate to lose time more than anything else. When I lose time, I feel like a failure. I know that I need to trust the system and the process, but losing time is scary.

Tonight I made Creamy Chicken Soup and home made bread. The bread turned out so good. I used my Bosch Universal – best kitchen appliance we ever bought. Here are the ingredients I used:

2 cups warm water
3 teaspoons yeast
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons honey
2 teaspoons salt
2 handfuls of rolled oats – crushed up a bit
and because I was out of milk, I added two large spoonfuls of plain yogurt.

I mixed in enough flour to make a soft, smooth, non sticky dough, let it double, punched it down, shaped it into two loaves, put it into Pam sprayed loaf pans, let is rise again, and baked it at 375 for 30 minutes. After it came out of the oven, I rubbed butter over the top of the loaves.

This bread was so good. It rose higher, was moister, and had a wonderful texture. I think I’ll keep plain yogurt on hand for the next baking day.

The soup is one of our favorites. It is warm and creamy with chunks of chicken and potatoes.

Creamy Chicken Potato Soup
4 large potatoes, peeled and diced
1 lb chicken breast diced
2 carrots grated
1 cup diced onions
3 cups water
1 cup milk
4 oz cream cheese or Velveeta
1 bag country gravy mix
1 tsp parsley flakes
½ cup shredded cheddar cheese - add at the end - just before serving

Cook chicken until done. Combine water, chicken, potatoes, carrots and onion in large pot. Bring to boil then simmer 15 minutes. Add parsley and cream cheese or Velveeta stirring until cheese is melted. Add milk and gravy mix, stir with wire whisk until all lumps are gone. Cook over low heat or in your crock pot for 2 to 3 hours. Top with shredded cheese just before serving.

Because I never have country gravy on hand, I mix up some chicken bouillon, flour, and spices and use that instead. Tonight I was a bit heavy handed with the pepper and salt, but it still tasted good. My husband who is a salt-aholic said it was just right. My 3D family and my internal alters are all satisfied. Yum!

For the Sake of the Washing Machine - Empty Your Pockets

Mothers of little boys soon learn to check pockets before doing the laundry. Even the smallest of boys will begin picking up little treasures every where they go. My little boy started this ritual at the tender age of 18 months. He is now seven, and these items were removed from his pockets during the last two days.

Sharpened Popsicle sticks (because every little boy needs a miniature sword)

Sharpened wood chips (these make great knives/daggers)

A broken pencil eraser

A panda pencil topper

A miniature Rottweiler

A magnifying glass

A red jewel

A link of jump rope

A zipper pull

3 pinto beans – yes, pinto beans

A broken bread bag fastener

And by far his favorite thing to find:

AirSoft pellets and BBs

He doesn’t have an AirSoft or a BB gun, but he and all of his friends love to collect these tiny treasures. They search for these circles of color on the playground at recess and trade with each other for colors they don’t have or colors they love. He usually carries home a few rocks which make their presence known when I forget to empty his pockets by banging loudly inside the dryer drum. To most of us these items may be garbage, but to him and his friends, these forgotten and abandoned tokens are the currency of his playground.

The Hardest Part of Starting a Blog

When I contemplated starting this blog, I had no idea that the hardest part of doing so would be figuring out what to name it. I need to write about my experiences of dealing with Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder), but I fail to do so because I am the type of person who works better with deadlines. By starting this blog, I hope to feel a bit of pressure to maintain it. Google has wonderful templates to easily turn even me into a blogger.

Excitedly thinking about all the things I would write about in my new blog, I clicked on the “create your blog” button; the first thing I was asked to do was “name your blog”. Things in my brain went quiet. A name . . . a name . . . what name . . . what would be a good name . . . what would be a name that people won’t find stupid . . . what would be a name I could live with on my blog for the rest of time?

I brainstormed several ideas: relatively normal, me and more, just me, super powers, being okay with DID, parts, day to day with DID, alters – adjust for a better fit, others, alters others shadow and sun, behind green eyes, more than me, all of me, and sunshine and shadows.

I wanted to use alters, parts, or others in the title because that is what I have, but when I looked those words up in the dictionary, they had some negative meanings or in my mind had negative connotations. the term others reminds me of the Nicole Kidman movie, The Others, about ghosts and fear. It also holds the suggestion of being somehow not okay. Parts denote something that is not whole; although with all my parts, I am whole. Alters which has a meaning I love: To adjust for a better fit, also means to change or make different, and to castrate or spay. Although at this point in my life I could do without my uterus, I don’t want that connotation being thought of when someone sees the title to my blog.

Alters, parts, and others are all acceptable terms to use when talking about the different personalities that are contained in the brain of a person who has DID. Some of us prefer one over the others; I am okay with all three.

One by one, I discarded every idea except for sunshine and shadows. Many people may think that being diagnosed with DID is life ending, but it is not (unless people find out and treat you badly or fail to hire you because of your diagnosis). Being diagnosed was both scary and a relief for me. I had a name for the things that were going on in my brain. I could now learn to live with this diagnosis. Life for a person with DID is much like life for someone without DID – only different. Not everything about having DID is bad; some things about having DID are actually helpful.

Some days, this blog will be about very normal things – things that have nothing to do with DID. Some days, this blog will be all about DID. When I write about things that may be triggering for someone else with DID, I will put a warning at the beginning of the post. My intent is not to hinder the healing of another person, but to get my thoughts, memories, concerns, joys, and even the mundane down on paper – or into digital code anyway. Feel free to email me or leave comments and questions. I’ll do my best to answer everything. Remember there is a human being (with several alters) at the end of that email – please be kind. Welcome to my story of the Sunshine and Shadows in my life.