Birds, Nest, and Trees

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll keep you posted on our bird family.

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

A close-up of the bleeding hearts.

Tulips ten days ago:

 

Tulips Today:

Do I Know You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am tired. I’ll be fine though.”

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

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

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

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

Barbecued Beef Ribs

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

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

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

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

Pour over ribs.

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

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

Lancer

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memory - Not Nearly as Reliable as a Scrapbook or Video

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The House and Other Stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polygamy

One of the visitors to my blog asked me about living in polygamy. I am happy to answer her questions.

She asked, “What was it like for you to grow up in a home of polygamy? What are your thoughts on these practices?”

Although polygamy is illegal where I live, the authorities choose not to prosecute those who practice polygamy which means that in some segments of our society it is left unchecked. Because the practice is illegal, the children are forced to live a secretive lifestyle. My view is that any secretive lifestyle is harmful to a child. A child living in an environment of secrecy is more likely to be abused and then not tell about the abuse. That child is trained to keep family secrets at the expense of their own mental health.

If polygamy was legal, I would still think the of the practice as harmful to those who live it. As a school teacher I understand that the larger the class size, the less I can do with the students. One person can only do so much. In polygamist families, you have one father with multiple families. Many children in polygamist societies have little or no interaction with their fathers. Kids need the influence of a good father. Wives are forced to share a man which means their emotional and temporal needs often go unmet. I know that some people think you need to live polygamy to gain the favor of God, but that is untrue. Other people think they need to live polygamy in order to be less selfish, but I believe that is just the cult leader’s way of making women be submissive to this lifestyle. I would never want one of my children to live polygamy.

Growing up in polygamy was better than living in my father’s home. My mother grew up in a polygamist cult. She left my father when I was almost seven years old and returned to the cult of her childhood. When we moved from my father’s home, I felt safe for the first time in years – meaning I didn’t fear being sexually or physically abused. We had food to eat, and while that food was often substandard and often not a balanced diet, there was always something to eat. However, now we had more secrets to keep. We were told that if we told anyone about the cult that they wouldn’t let us see our grandmother (my father’s mother) anymore. I had a great love for my grandmother, so I kept quiet. We were told that if anyone found out about the cult that we could be put in foster homes or returned to our father, so we kept the secrets and told lies in order to protect our mother and our step-father. I spent my entire childhood in a state of anxiety.

Our mother was asked to collect state welfare for the new children she had with my step father, but she was not permitted to tell who their father was. Yes, she committed welfare fraud and later had to pay the money back. Welfare workers would come to our house and question us. We were told to say that our step-father was our landlord and when asked who the father of the new baby was the answer was always, “I don’t know.” When I was eight years old, I made a promise to my older self that I would never go on welfare. I couldn’t stand the stress those home checks brought into our lives. She told the state worker that she would go to bars and go home with someone. I didn’t like people thinking that my mother was the town whore. I felt our family was dirty with shame and lies.

A few years after my mother married my step-father he took another wife. His second wife was mentally retarded, but the leaders felt she deserved to have children, so he married her. A few years after that, he married his second wife’s younger sister. She was also mentally retarded. It was hard for my mother to deal with these two new wives. They needed a lot of supervision. They each burned down their homes for completely preventable reasons. They were childlike in many ways. I think it was too much for them to be parents, but the leader said it would be so; my step-dad was a perfect follower, so he did what he was told.

I have also seen situations where men are so frustrated by the demands placed on them by having multiple families that when they are unable to meet those needs, they become impatient and violent. Jealousy runs rampant in polygamist cults. Women are told they are not good enough if they feel jealousy toward a sister wife. The men always have a favorite wife and pity the poor wife who isn’t it. Many of the children do not know who their father is because secrets are safer if the children are unaware.

At age twelve, I loved this cult and hoped I wouldn’t be asked to marry someone that already had another wife. I felt great love towards most of the people – I was related by blood to most of them because of inbreeding. By age thirteen, I knew I would find a way to leave the cult because of the abuses I saw toward women and children. My step-father was a decent man. He was not demonstrative, so I didn’t know he cared about me until I was grown, but he wasn’t violent or perverted. I always felt safe around him. He was blindly following a leader who was corrupt, but he (my step-father) was a good man in many ways.

In the next few days, I will go into what living in this cult was like and why I decided to leave.

Doubting Memory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crepes

I know I already updated once today, but my girls and I made crepes today. They were tasty, so I am sharing the recipe with you.

Crepes
1 cup flour
1½ cups milk
2 eggs
2 TBS sugar
1 TBS light olive oil
1/8 teaspoon salt

Mix together flour, milk, eggs, sugar, oil, and salt with a mixer until well mixed. Heat a non-stick skillet on medium heat. Lightly butter pan and wipe clean with a paper towel. Pour ¼ cup of batter into pan. Lift skillet and tilt to spread batter. Carefully flip once and fill with toppings of your choice.

We make both savory and sweet crepes. For the savory you can use meat of your choice, cheese of choice, and toppings of choice. Today we used chicken (left over from last night’s dinner) cream cheese, balsamic vinegar, green onions, lettuce, and tomatoes. I love to put spinach on them when it is in season in my garden.
I put the toppings on while the crepe is still in the pan – it makes the cheese melt. I put the cheese, the meat, the vinegar, the onions, and then the lettuce and tomatoes.

For the sweet ones, we used cream cheese, powdered sugar, blueberries, and raspberries. I fill it while it is still cooking in the pan – it warms the fruit and cream cheese.

Citrus Chicken

Last night I remade the chicken breast recipe that I shared a short while ago (Chicken Breast with Kiwifruit). I made some changes and have renamed the recipe Citrus Chicken. It turned out really good.

Ingredients:
6 boneless skinless chicken breasts
6 green onions – chopped
2 cloves garlic – minced
2 TBS light olive oil
½ teaspoon paprika
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large skillet, heat olive oil and stir fry green onions and garlic for one minute. Add chicken (3 at a time) and sprinkle with paprika, salt and pepper. Sear both sides. Remove from heat, place on broiler pan and broil (on low) turning once until chicken is cooked through – about seven minutes on each side.

Sauce:
2 lemons – washed and dried
2 oranges – washed and dried
2 TBS butter
2 TBS sugar
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon salt

Zest the rind of one lemon and one orange. Juice the lemons and oranges into a small bowl. Heat butter in a small saucepan and add sugar. Stir until sugar and butter are melted and sugar begins to caramelize (begins to darken). Add orange and lemon juice and zest. Mixture will chunk up; stir until smooth. Boil and stir the sauce until it reaches the thickness you want. Stir in the salt and cayenne pepper.

Slice chicken into strips and pour sauce over chicken. Serve.

This recipe will make it into our dinner rotation.

Plants, Trees, and other Growing Things

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

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

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

The bleeding hearts are just beginning to bloom.

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

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

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

Another beautiful formation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

they are so hollow you can see right through them.

And some have no heart left at all.

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

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

and soon . . .













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

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

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

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

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

Bent

We’ve been at Zion National Park for the last two day. Zion is peaceful and beautiful. I’m sad that we only planned on two days here. When we get home, I’ll share some pictures with you. We hiked and meandered our way through part of the park. We will be back to see more – hopefully I won’t wait another 46 years to come back.

Zion has a wonderful shuttle system which keeps the canyon free of traffic. The shuttles come by every six minutes or so which means hardly any waiting. During our six minute waits, I took hundreds of pictures. I know my pictures will not do this beautiful place justice, but I’ll share some of them anyway. One of our shuttle drivers was named Bent. He was from Denmark. His name sent my mind wandering.

I thought about the song, “Bent,” by Matchbox 20.
Lyrics: (some of them anyway)

If I fall along the way
Pick me up and dust me off
And if I get too tired to make it
Be my breath so I can walk

If I need some other love
Give me more than I can stand
And when my smile gets old and faded
Wait around I'll smile again

Shouldn't be so complicated
Just hold me and then
Just hold me again

Can you help me I'm bent
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together

You're breaking me in
And this is how we will end
With you and me bent

If I couldn't sleep could you sleep
Could you paint me better off
Could you sympathize with my needs
I know you think I need a lot

I started out clean but I'm jaded
Just phoning it in
Just breaking the skin

Can you help me I'm bent
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together.

For a long time this is how I felt. I still feel bent, but I’m okay with that. My pieces may never get put back together, and I am okay with that as well. Most days I like having pieces.

Today we stopped at Chuck a Rama for lunch. I had a piece of German chocolate cake. Of course I scraped of the chocolate frosting before I ate it. Then I sat and looked at the pile of chocolate frosting and asked myself, “Why do you do that?”

“I don’t like frosting; it is too sweet,” I answered.

“But you used to like frosting.”

“Yes, I did.”

So I stuck my finger in the frosting and licked it. It was very sweet, but in small doses – the size of a finger full – it was tasty. I still don’t think I could eat the frosting made of shortening; it is way too greasy. But maybe I have moved past the picking in the cake incident enough to enjoy frosting once again. It has been 42 years. I’ll write more about it sometime this week. Today I am on vacation and can’t bring myself to think about it in detail.

The fortune in my fortune cookie said, “Stay close to your inner self; you will benefit in many ways.” Now if I could just figure out all my inner selves, I’d be happy to stay close to them all. ;)

Safe Healthy Boundaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wrong Solution to a Temporary Problem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shopping with Shadow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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