Frailty

Warning to abuse survivors:This blog may cause triggers for you.    When I, with heartache-write, I fear the dark; breathe in the light. When I, in frailty-fall, the bruises ache; healing calls. I have often wondered, what is the distance between my past to my tears. Fragile by the age of three, from being abused so much, MPD was created to help me survive. And over the years, through times of being overwhelmed, I was held in the frailty of my mind. A mind that had to endure abuses that others just can’t imagine. Abuses that have gone on in one way or another for at least forty-nine years now. I have never had a time in my life where there have not been people abusing me somehow. At times, over the years, I have felt so fragile, that just one more word or a look would break me;crumble me in a heap upon the floor, asking why.I have felt ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

With the MPD, if things became overwhelming; too fragile at that moment of impact upon my heart, the pressure within me would build. New personalities would be born through the intensity of pressure and pain. One to five or more personalities would be created at a time. I really miss that. I miss having the relief from the pressure. I miss the personalities. They felt like friends that I could go to anytime, for anything. They carried every ounce of the pain for me.

I have trembled over the years in my frailty. While going through the integrations, I was scared by being so fragile. It felt like the gentlest breath of wind would break me completely into dust. It wasn’t even until the last few years of the integrations that I learned how to fight off new personalities being created. Yet, even right before the final integrations, another personality was created. They eased the pain of the integrations. They were created as a means to try and keep the MPD going. They were the last resort at trying to keep life as “We” had always known it, still intact.

Besides the personality that was created last, a long time personality had come forward to be the protector of those who were about to integrate. His name was Jeremy.He’d been around for more than 30 years.  It was his job to protect those who were getting ready to integrate finally. It was his job to tell people we knew- Goodbye. It was his job to tell those people Thankyou for all they’d done to help this process of healing. And it was his job to hold every alter as they left. It was him, who held all those final tears and brought me out of hiding-back into life. He hated to give in to integrating and healing. He felt he let the others down. But he was brave enough to carry the others into healing and wholeness.

And now, after all the integrations over so many years, I am left wondering how I fit the hurt of over 200 personalities; all the pressure of their pain, and tuck it away into just one me? How do I knit the past together with the present? Where is the hidden bridge which links the two places?

Different personalities had different characteristics; different likes and dislikes; different talents. There was the woodworker, who loved to design and build things. There was the writer- Lindsay Greenwood. Some did have different last names. They were different nationalities. Some loved the outdoors, while others didn’t. Some were totally comfortable around people, while others were terrified of everyone. One personality stuttered. I still do that if I get really stressed, just a little bit. One couldn’t talk. One excelled at math, while all the others couldn’t get math. Doctors who needed to give me medication for pain or sinus trouble, or just anything, found it difficult. What dosage that may have been just right for one personality, was way too strong, if a child personality popped out. And it wasn’t enough for others. Some personalities were able to shut out pain. They had to know how to do that with all the abuse they’d gone through. A broken foot didn’t always hurt,and I kept walking on it. Other times, the pain was intense. When in labor with my son, the nurses didn’t understand why I didn’t feel even most of the strongest contractions.

These days, my struggle seems to be with keeping my thoughts together. With the MPD, my thoughts switched as rapidly as my personalities switched. I thought this problem would go away once I was healed of MPD. But my brain still feels like mush. God is working on strengthening it more, just as He did , when he gradually brought me into reality. I have learned, though, that my mind drifting off into different directions, works as a distraction when things became too much to handle. For awhile my mind may block something out- memories, hurt, anything. And I may have no remembrance of it for awhile. I can still totally forget alot, as my mind needs a break from it all. I may forget to make phone calls. I may forget to do other things. I may forget something that I had just been remembering in a flashback. It’s always been there, as a way to cope and survive.It’s often difficult to write, as memories are blocked off, if the pain becomes too much. I can spend alot of time during therapy, forgetting what I was just reliving or going to say.

When flashbacks have flooded me too intensely, and frozen me in a distant memory, it drains my heart and leaves me frail once again. Over the years, many people have asked me what my days are like. It’s always been, and still is difficult for me to be in any bathroom. I actually dissociate most of the time in any bathroom. I tremble in fear as flashbacks surround me there. I almost become sick. On good or bad days, there are alot of flashbacks all day long. Some of those I can numb out and not feel. On days when I write, just thinking about what I’ll write-triggers flashbacks and causes me to relive it all. With the MPD, the children personalities would sit in therapists offices and beg them to make the reliving abuse  stop. Just “seeing” it all and reliving it can make me about vomit. Panic flares up all day, still often unexplained and unconnected to the memories floating around. I dissociate alot then. Or I feel it all, then dissociate and numb myself to it. It can be difficult to concentrate, when you’re going through the abuse over and over like that. Yet, I am always thankful for when the numbness comes, coating the memories and allowing me to feel nothing. Actually, by the time I am done writing each time, the numbness comes and I can literally forget it all for awhile. This is how my life has always been, so it’s all normal to me. It actually seems very foreign when I have quiet times, on occasion.

At times, it does help, to reach down into the fragile places in my heart, my mind, my past. It helps to hold the frailty, and it helps to be held by it. I breathe in the frailty, and exhale the strength it has formed over the years. For every day that I am weak, I grow stronger still. I have paid the price every day of my life, since I was three years old, for all the abuse done to me. It has taken an unimaginable toll on me; on every aspect of my life. And every day, moment by moment, I fall in this frailty, but then I rise again. I am a warrior, determined to regain my life, and be restored. I am a warrior fighting to become whole.

When I, with frailty-write; I hold the pen, and resume this fight. When I, in frailty- cry; I climb higher,reaching for light.

Beyond Repair

Warning to anyone who is a survivor of abuse: This blog may trigger flashbacks for you.      All my life, I always felt that I was beyond repair. I always felt that whatever was wrong with me, couldn’t be healed. I felt that way at age three. I felt that way when I was diagnosed with MPD. And over ten years of integrations, of over 200 personalities, I felt unrepairable. Now, more than a year after all the integrations, and being healed of MPD, I embrace all the healing I have gone through. Yet, on days such as today, I see I am still not completely whole and wonder if I am still beyond repair. But, looking back, I see how much of me has healed, and I know who my Healer is.

It’s not easy as I sit down and look in the face of my past. It’s as though I am looking into the eyes of my abusers, even though they have all died over the years. It’s not easy, sitting in the silence as memory after memory drums through my heart. July 21, 2009 was when God healed me of MPD. I am still healing from a lifetime of abuse. I am still learning to be just one person, since all the integrations. I still believe that being just one person is not all it’s cracked up to be. And dealing with reliving abuse & flashbacks daily, isn’t easy. I wade through the broken crevices of my mind, trying to heal the erosion that all of the abuse created. Healing often feels to me, like being torn apart.

In the muddiness of my mind, I’m trying to find my way through this healing. Since I was three, the personalities shrouded who I was. They hid me softly, in the sanctuary of a shattered mind. And now, I am left with only the memories of the personalities, like ghosts of dearly beloved friends; like whispers on the wind. I have been seasoned by all I’ve been through, just as age has whitened  my hair more. Time has etched a few wrinkles into my skin and etched more heartache into my soul.

Daily, hourly, minute by minute, there are memories which flood my mind as I beg for mercy to never see them in flashbacks or relive them again. The other day, on the way home from a short walk, as I came to our parking lot, I was suddenly frozen in my tracks; suddenly frozen in time, in 1960. I was trembling,  lost in a flashback right there in our parking lot. It was another flashback I’d never seen before, of people I didn’t know. In the flashback, it was chilly out, perhaps autumn. I can see five people. I can see their hairstyles, their glasses, their clothing. I sense I was with them once before. I sense I can’t trust the guy with the white shirt, blue button up sweater, greased back hair. I was afraid of him, and knew what was about to happen. I didn’t want to go inside with them. In the flashback, I was feeling sick to my stomach. In my own parking lot, trapped in time, I felt sick to my stomach too. And I began shaking uncontrollable. My knees almost gave out from under me. I could barely walk down to my apartment, while the flashback played out before my eyes. I was terror stricken of the people I saw playing out before my eyes like a movie on a screen. And as I shook uncontrollably, I wondered just how many more people abused me that I haven’t even remembered yet. And as I sit here and write about the flashbacks now, I feel sick to my stomach, again.

Lately, memories of other abusers are being revealed. It knocks the breath out of me. Memories are dripping out of the deepest reaches of my mind. They feel like an infected wound that needs to be cleansed, so it can heal. And now, I fear the next flashback more than ever. It feels like flashbacks are always peering  around the corner, ready to pounce on me at any moment, like a cougar lying in wait. I find myself looking around the corners of my mind to see if I can find any waiting for me. My heart is beating to the rhythm of my fear. I sense a wave of flashbacks shall be newly uncovered, brought forth out of their hiding places to storm before me soon.

Today, I have struggled with another newly surfaced flashback which has been going on for hours, in intervals that only last a few seconds each time. They are traces of a memory, falling as a dusting of snow. And I await the blizzard of memories soon to come. I await the avalanche. I do not know what will be revealed to me. What other memories have been trapped in my broken mind; trapped within this reservoir of random nightmarish memories along with feelings of anxiety and shame. Terror that comes out of the blue, and holds me in it’s grasp is always on the prowl, too. But I am walking slowly out of the haze of it all. Each step takes me further out of the brokenness, and closer to restoration. Each violent memory brings tears to wash over me. And tears seem to bring more healing, so I journey on, no longer feeling beyond repair.

The pages of my life were always written for me, by my abusers, out of my control. But, now I grasp the pen, and will try to write the remaining chapters of my life. I will try to guide the paintbrush as my life unfolds on the canvas. The colors will no longer be black and blue. I will not allow that, anymore. I will paint the unfolding flower; the sunset as it bleeds across the sky. I will paint myself rising from the ruins of my life. With that in mind, I need to journey through these hidden memories to integrate them into myself, too. I need to step through the door of the past, and walk backwards  in the footprints from which I came. It is there, in the ruins, that I shall arise. It is there, where I shall heal more.

Thinking of the past and writing about it, makes the flashbacks escalate and gain momentum. And as these flashbacks and fears  cascade down, it becomes overwhelming.Then I become lost in their day and time;lost in feeling sick, unable to concentrate on anything else but them. Feeling everything I felt in those times, and trying to survive like I did then. I have gone through times over the years, where  memories do come back in floods. I am preparing for that now. It has started already. The season is upon me now.And through this season, I shall heal more. I am not beyond repair, for  God is my Healer.

Lightning in the Night

In 1991, I started into therapy and was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder & MPD. The flashbacks of abuse had been there as far back as I could remember, but I never knew what they were. I never understood what it is that I was “seeing.” Little did I know that what I was seeing, was what had happened to me. And as I continued through the first year of therapy, I thought I surely must be about done with having any new flashbacks. Yet, almost nineteen years later, I am still hit by newly uncovered flashbacks, often.

And the flashbacks come like lightning in the night. Blinding, searing; one right after the other, they come in a storm of memories. They flash across my memories, illuminating places long hidden in darkness. People I don’t even know , lurk in the flashbacks. I still have no idea who some of the abusers were, even though I see them clearly.

Usually daily, sometimes all day long, and other times- fewer and farther apart, flashbacks play out like a horrible movie before my eyes. Never knowing when they will flash across my mind’s eye, there is no preparing for them. They come at any moment, any place. Sometimes, flashbacks last just a quick moment or two. I try to shake them off, and forget about them again. Other times, I find myself paralyzed by the terror they bring. Unable to shake them off, I feel chained to them. It’s the long lasting flashbacks I can’t shake free from that have the biggest impact on me. All I can do is sit there, reliving the abuse as real as it was during the abuse. Like 3-D memories of mind, body and heart, they play out before me, despite my trying to shut them out. They take on a life of their own. Then, I just get too weak to fight them off. Other times, it doesn’t even occur to me to try and stop them. That is when I feel like I’m in the middle of a stampede.

It has always felt like each uncovered flashback has chiseled away another piece of my heart; another piece of who I am. It’s like being hit so hard, it takes my breathe away. Yet, I have learned over the years, that also, for each newly unveiled flashback, I am being handed another piece of the missing puzzle of my life. It will fill in why I react a certain way, why I feel certain ways. It will fill in more missing pieces of all the time I have lost over a lifetime. Each flashback is like a voice of what I endured, revealing it’s self to me.

And like lightning in the night, illuminating, revealing, magnifying all in it’s range, so the flashbacks do the same within my soul. When the last flashback will come, I do not know. My eyes grow weary at times, from all I see in them. Yet, at the same time, all this is so normal to me. It’s been a part of my life at least since the age of three. That’s part of the legacy that abuse left for me.

The Deep End of the Past

For the past eight days, my heart has ached like never before. During this time, I haven’t felt like talking much. I’ve barely been able to pray for others. And I haven’t been able to pray for myself at all. No words came. There was just a deep ache: a deep groaning in my soul, and a silent cry. I have always been able to pray, so I didn’t understand what was happening to me. And music, which has always been my sanctuary of comfort, has been a stranger to me. I just couldn’t even listen to music. It hurt too much to even think of it. I have felt completely raw.

The content of the next paragraph here, may be upsetting to some people.So please skip it, if you think it will bother you:

Years ago,I raised many rabbits. One morning, I walked into the barn and heard a noise I’d never heard before. It was a horrible, screaming sound, being echoed throughout the barn. One rabbit had given birth to several young. She had skinned them alive, and they were screaming in pain. It was a horrible sound and sight.

And that is how I’ve felt the past eight days. It has felt like I’ve been crawling around the jagged edges of hell on my belly. I have never felt such crippling, intense feelings. My soul has screamed the cries of the rabbits. I’ve known for years, that as I healed, I would begin to feel more of what has always been shut out. But I had no idea the sheer force of it all would feel like this. Layer upon layer, the depth of it all is being peeled away and placed into my heart. Shutting out a life time of abuse is drawing to a close. And I have hurt more intensely than I ever thought possible. It feels as though I have gone through major surgery. I am sore, tired, taking everything slower.

All my life, the over 200 personalities I had with the MPD, felt everything for me. I now know why it took so many of them to help me survive. I not only had to survive the nightmare of abuse, but I also had to survive the intense sorrow, fear, anger, hurt… All of it. I couldn’t do it, so they went through it all for me. And for the first time since I was three-I’m feeling the intensity of it all. And I’m feeling what all 200 personalities felt. I can barely ride the waves of those feelings for a minute, yet I spent the last eight days, immersed in them. I now know what it means to cry your heart out. The depths of my soul screamed and groaned in agony. I could not even pray, God, help me.” Every time I tried to pray for myself, all I could do is groan and scream silently. I am now wading into the deep end of the past; the feelings, the emotions.

Every feeling the personalities felt, has always just floated around outside of me, at random. Like an occasional fly landing on me, is how they are. I’d be hit with a sudden bolt of terror or severe depression; a bolt of grief or anger. But it was always distanced from me. Those feelings always belonged to the personalities. They were never my feelings. Dissociation and depersonalization served me well. But the past eight days, I felt like I was putting all my energy into just surviving the enormity of everything I was feeling. I didn’t even have time or the ability to dissociate from it all. All I could do was ride out the storm.

The closest I’ve ever come to anything like this, is when I was going through the integrations; especially the last year of the integrations. And in a way, what I am going through now, is like that.  These distanced feelings are being brought from miles away and placed into my soul; being moored there,like a boat. Today, I realized for the first time, these are my feelings. It’s difficult to own them. It is scary to think that I really did go through such atrocities to cause these intense feelings that slam into me now. I’m still trying to get used to being just one person. And now, I struggle with trying to take the feelings and emotions of over 200 personalities and feel them all as mine. Just imagine if you had to take on the hurt, the pain, every emotion of 200 people and carry them all as yours. That is how this feels.

During all this, I tried grabbing hold of any remnants of MPD,but it has all faded away. It’s reflection has rippled out. Like when a pebble is tossed into a lake, and the ripples spread out til they disappear, so too, the MPD has gone. I also tried grasping onto a corner of the inner make believe worlds to help me survive this. I couldn’t find a corner of it until this morning, for a few brief minutes. And I was comforted there. Those minutes are getting fewer and farther between.

The more intense the pain became over the past eight days, the more I yearned for and missed the MPD. And I felt that more intensely than ever before. As this continued healing comes in waves, it pulls me farther from my usual dwelling place of comfort. I want to pull back and go into hiding within myself again. Yet, I know, this is healing. I must go through all these things to heal more. I need to get these distanced intense feelings back into me. I need to become strong enough to hold these feelings in my heart and not be terrified of them. I need to go through this.

The deep end of the past is not an easy place to be. But I am determined to get through this, by His grace.

The Bridge

Today, I write from a hollow place. I have been here for a little while now,and I’m finding it very difficult to climb out of here. It is so deep, that it echoes with the pain of my soul. Even my tears feel like empty outlines that fall from my eyes. I am finding it a rough journey, trying to build the bridge from where I used to be with MPD- to where I will be when I am restored. This hollow place resonates with all the feelings I cannot feel right now.

I am able to strongly feel other’s pain right now. But my pain is only seeping through the barriers I have put up the past two weeks,once again. It has been difficult to write, difficult to concentrate, difficult to feel much of anything right now.When I do feel it,the intensity is such, that I have to dissociate more. I feel immobilized by it all. The overwhelming realization that it has been fourteen months since I was healed of MPD, is taking it’s toll on me. I am extremely thankful for that healing.But this readjustment phase to getting used to life without MPD is wearing on me. It is still so difficult to think I’ll never have MPD again. Unimaginable to think I’ll never have the personalities back. Being just one person, now, is good, but it also breaks my heart at times. So, I dissociate; block out things I cannot deal with. And I silently cry out for mercy.

Last week,I saw my therapist. She said that because I knew most of my personalities, and most of them knew of each other,and they developed such a close bond-it makes this so difficult for me.It is why I’m having a difficult time building this bridge from MPD to restoration. I discussed some of the personalities with her- like reminiscing about an old friend,except these were my personalities. She’s known me since ‘91, and has helped me through the worst times of my life. She knew most of the personalities. So sitting down and talking about them helped alot. When a loved one dies, it helps to talk about them; to share your favorite things about them; to talk about good times. I can’t exactly share all that with anyone else. I can’t say to someone, “I’m really grieving for my personalities today.” I don’t know many people that would be comfortable with that. So, I haven’t really had time to work through my grieving process. I go through it alone.But it did feel good to share with her about my personalities again. I don’t have a “photo album” of them that I can pour through. I can look through pictures of me, and tell you who was in each picture, but that doesn’t do it justice. I saw each personality as looking different. So, it seems that to heal more, I will gradually need to talk about these “people” more. I intend to slowly start doing that in this blog,too.

I do find myself, at times, still trying to force the personalities to come back. Try to get them to surface again. If something comes up, that would’ve caused a switch in personalities, I hang onto that moment, trying to switch into that personality. They just aren’t there anymore. I find myself desperately needing to create new personalities;desperately trying to. In all honesty, I am trying to do that right now. Over the years, as pressure grew unbearable from circumstances that were too much, new personalities were created to relieve that pressure/ to handle that circumstance. And now I do not have that ability, as much as I cry out for it. I grieve for that loss,too, not being able to create personalities. I grieve for not being able to name them, to help develop who they were. It was artistic to me. I grieve for the inner worlds, and being able to create them, too. I need a place to have all that creativity to  flow into, but I haven’t found it yet. I grieve for the love I felt from my personalities; the daily interaction with them; the never being alone since they were always here. And through my tears, yes, I wish I could create more personalities.

Perhaps, it would be different if my life was easier; maybe not. But how do you lose 200 extremely important people you know;some you’ve known for forty-eight years? If I could create more personalities right now, at this very moment, would I? Without a doubt, yes. I am left here alone, in a world that is unfamiliar to me. I am left, trying to get used to doing what 2oo others always did for me. It’s like owning a corporation. Then suddenly, one day, all 200 people are gone, and only the boss is left there to run everything;trying to figure out how it all works; trying to do everything they’ve never done before. The building is empty and feels hollow.

I feel as though I’ve had the breath knocked out of me. I feel like an artist, unable to paint. Like a singer, unable to sing. Like a tree, whose leaves are unable to change color. And, I feel like a stream without water. I feel like a garden that has turned to desert.

I know, that for every step of this journey, when the terrain has gotten too rough to travel on, is when another healing is about to come. I feel the labor pains of it. Yet, I want to return to the sanctuary of MPD. It always felt like home, and now nothing does. I don’t feel at home in myself yet. I am still a stranger to me. One day, I will no longer feel like I am always walking among thorns and thistles. One day, I won’t feel like I am falling down more than I am walking. The bridge will be completed. And one day, I will fully understand the beauty of this healing. Today, I am understanding the beauty of MPD even more.

Homeless

The first time I was homeless, I was just barely eighteen years old. I had graduated high school in June 1975. A couple weeks later, I turned eighteen. By September, my mom had kicked me out of the house , in one of her rages. I’d always prepared for being homeless, because throughout my childhood, and into my teens, my mom tried talking other people into taking me and raising me. She didn’t want me. She didn’t want me from the time she was pregnant with me, until the day she died in 1987.

One day, when I was eighteen, my mother was just having a day of being furious about everything. I was folding laundry like she asked, trying to avoid a confrontation. Before I was done with that chore, she yelled at me to do something else.She would do this often, to get me in trouble either way.If I left to do a new chore, I’d be in trouble for not finishing the first chore. If I finished the first chore, I’d be in trouble for not listening about doing the new chore. She loved creating those moments, where I’d be in trouble either way. I tried weighing the moment, to see which choice felt safest. I decided to finish the first chore. She was outraged and told me to pack my bags and leave, get out, never come back. At that stage in life, I was totally terrified of her, so I packed, called a friend& she drove me away.

I was homeless. I had a small suitcase of clothes, no coat, just a blazer jacket, and $800 in the bank. I ended up living with one friend after another. At times, I ate canned vegetables, to not impose on my friend’s. At one point, when I’d spent time with all my friends for a week or so ate a time, I moved downstate to live with another friend. She was in college and had a small apartment she shared with two other people. It was really too crowded for me to be there, so I got a motel room. October came, and I had no coat, with no money to buy one. I was buying canned food and eating it right out of the cans. I was running out of money fast, and was coming down with pneumonia.

I called my mom to see if I could come home. She said I couldn’t unless I told everyone that she hadn’t kicked me out. I told her she had kicked me out, and I wasn’t going to lie about it. People had been getting after her for kicking me out, and she hated me for telling people. She wasn’t going to let me come home. So, I headed to the house of a lady I had babysat for. She let me move in.After a week there, I was alot sicker, burning up with fever, sleeping thirty six hours at a time. I needed to get to a Dr, but had no money left. I called my mom again. She was still being ugly to me, but my dad told her to let me come home. So, I did.

In 1992, after I’d spent a year at a group home to get intensive help with my MPD, I was ready to leave, but had no place to go. I moved into an old, run down hotel. It looked to have been built into a Victorian home. But inside of it, was a nightmare. It was a three story building. My room was on the second floor. And it was strictly just a room, with a sink, closet, old bed, dresser and a tv. The bathroom was down the hall and everyone shared it, including having to take turns getting showers. I refused to walk there during the night.

On the second floor, two guys were always beating each other up. My floor had stuff going on that I’ll never mention. The first floor, had alot of guys always beating their wives up. Each morning, as I’d head out, I’d see the ladies sitting on the enclosed porch, with fresh new bruises and cuts each day. Black eyes, bruised faces and arms, busted lips. One night things got worse. The manager’s husband was beating her so hard you could hear it all. She ran throughout the building yelling , “Help me. Let me in your room. He’s gonna kill me.” She was knocking on everyone’s doors, begging to be let in. He  was about eight steps behind her. I was too terrified to let her in. So was everyone else. Finally it stopped. I waited awhile til I thought for sure it was over with. Then I ran down the steps, out the front door to the police station to report it. Sadly, they said it happened all the time. But they went to check it out. I spent the night with a friend.

The next morning when I came back, the ladies were in the porch again. The manager’s face was covered in bruises, swollen.She looked at me, then hung her head down. She knew I’d made the police report. All I could do was wonder why these ladies lived there, constantly being beaten up by their husbands. They didn’t deserve it. I feared for their lives. I knew I had to find a new place to live, but had to stay the whole month there, because I had no extra money to move anywhere else.When I did move out of there, my next place was just another rooming house. I had one guy trying to pick the lock on my door all night. Another guy constantly asked me for what he wanted from me,not happy it never happened.

After that, I moved in with a friend’s friend. By that point, I was pregnant with my son and needed a nice place to stay. That didn’t work out well, and by the time I’d had my son- a preemie, with Dr’s unsure if he’d live, I was homeless again. My baby was in NICU and I had no home. I called my dad to see if I could move back home. I moved back in there, was recuperating from my c-section, my son was still in the hospital, but after almost four weeks, he was able to come “home.”

Living there didn’t last long for us either. My son was on a monitor, still very small. It was winter. I got home one day, and all our belongings were packed up, sitting in the porch. The locks had been changed on the door so I couldn’t get in. When I was finally let in, I was told we no longer lived there. So, then I was a single parent, homeless with a sick preemie baby. Once again, I stayed with people. Two I stayed with for a week,each.  The other lady I stayed with til I was able to line up a place to live in July. I ate my son’s old baby food that needed thrown out, to have something to eat. I bought him everything he needed, but I did without. At times, I sold things to have enough money to buy him food and other things. I sold a ring I loved. I sold just about everything along the way.

I was humiliated, terrified, broken, hurting, feeling abandoned, alone.There were times I almost stood on street corners, begging for food or money, but I never did. I came very close to it many times,though.

Being homeless is something that I pray no one ever has to go through. With times being so tough right now, alot of people are hurting. Alot of people are out of work. Alot of people are having to give up their homes. Some have no money and nowhere to go. It is my prayer that everyone puts themselves in another person’s shoes. Feel what another is feeling. Feel what it would be like if that was you. It can happen to anyone. Picture yourself with no home, no food. Do what you can do to help a brother or sister out.Reach out to people in need. They’re in your community. They’re in your church. They are your neighbors, your friends.

It has been brought to my attention, that a sister in Christ, that I know from Twitter, is having a rough time right now. Her and her three kids need to move out of their home by Sept. 15th. On Twitter @LiftJesusHigh has started a Tweeple Fund to help them out. All he asks if for people to donate a dollar or two. It is a legitimate fund to help this sister and her family.

Knowing first hand, what it’s like to not always have a home, this situation breaks my heart. I pray, as you read this, that if you can, you contact this brother on Twitter on how to make a donation to help.

What keeps going through my heart, is the verse about, “I was hungry and you fed Me.”

Tears on the Mountain

As a warning to abuse survivors,there may be material in this blog that may upset or trigger things for you.

Over the journeys of my life, I have seen that I have never climbed my mountains all alone. God has been climbing them with me. Many mountains have trembled at the touch of His hands. So, I have learned during the course of my healing, to surrender them all to Him. I am freer than I have ever been, yet, more mountains still rise up before me. This past week, I have faced more that need to be conquered. To conquer them, I need to remove the veil from them and share the story of them now. To heal more, I must unmask their height and depth. Over the years, I have cried a stream of tears on the mountains. The past week, my prayer has been, “Release me! Release me!” As the stream flows, so I am being released now.

I have sat with silence as my companion this past week. I have walked back, and dared to glance at my life before being healed of MPD. Silent was the only way to be. I knew that one day I would be standing here, now, looking at how I used to be. And looking back through those doors, through my tears and pain, through the guilt and shame, I stood silent. Things I’d rather not share with anyone, is flowing out, so I may be healed more. I can’t move on til I am released by sharing what lies behind these doors. I feel the push to tell the things I try to hide. Once again, I will be brutally honest about myself.

I have been unable to fully face some of the mountains over the years. They are still difficult to face now. One such mountain, I am climbing now. Having been tethered to it for a lifetime, I am ready to conquer it now.

Growing up, abused so much, I was trained that I had only one purpose in life- to be abused in whatever ways my abusers chose. Certain personalities were trained that if they cooperated, they wouldn’t get the full force rage that always went with the abuse otherwise. Some personalities knew of the abuse. Others did not. A small child personality, at a young age, learned to go along with the games and the abuse to avoid the violence. They were trained to seek out the abusers and the abuse. Only that personality knew that. It wasn’t often they were totally out on their own. Almost always, all of my life, there were two or three personalities out at a time to function better. But occasionally that child personality would be out on their own, doing what they were trained to do. But then, another personality would surface, be terrified and fight the abusers. That always got them in alot of trouble.There were certain ones created specifically for the purpose of taking the abuse so the others didn’t have to.

By age fifteen, there was another personality created to handle the abuse in her own way. By the time that camping trip came, Lacey was sick and tired of constant abuse. She was sick of my grandfather, sick of my mother, sick of everyone. She hated my mother coming into her room at night to do things to her that she never told anyone. The day before everyone was to leave on the camping trip- The trip where my grandfather raped me and I got pregnant-she was sick of it all. Suddenly her attitude evolved into one of “Do unto others before they do unto you.” She was out all on her own, with no other personalities out to help monitor things. She knew I was going to be raped on that trip. She knew my grandfather was going to be violent to me. The others inside were already terrified of him. So with her new attitude, she went to the grandfather and gave herself to him.

She thought it would spare the others of any abuse on the trip, if she went to him first. For a few brief seconds during the time of her giving herself to him,another personality was out right then, but they were so horrified by it, that they went back into hiding. During that bit of time, my mother came into the room.She left as quickly as she came. Never said a word about it. She knew he had abused me for years. Thinking, she’d protected the other personalities from abuse on the trip, Lacey thought she had showed my grandfather that he was no longer in control. Then, on the trip, the rape came. She had to deal with giving herself to him to protect the rest. All the personalities had to deal with the guilt and shame of what Lacey had done. And now, on my path of healing, I am standing before this memory now. Tears on the mountain hit hard. But this is one more thing I need to be released from, to heal, to journey farther, to soar.

Lacey held alot of anger, alot of shame, no self-esteem. She is the one, who my mother kept trying to talk into becoming a prostitute. She considered it alot, too. But the others inside wouldn’t let her. The others couldn’t even tolerate holding hands with anyone, so there was no way being a prostitute was going to happen. Lacey thought it was all she was trained to do, but the others would just not allow it. It was difficult enough to deal with what that one child personality, and Lacey had done. They felt that they had been abused by so many people and my grandfather had guys pay him to be able to abuse me, so what was the difference. But, the others inside who were terrified at the thought of anyone touching them, took control of the situation.

Facing these memories today, leaves me silent. Leaves me hurting, but healing. Leaves me in the shame that is being washed away in the river I kneel in now. I stand in silence, as it washes over me. “Release me.Release me.” It washes over me. I stand in awe of how far God has brought me through healing and restoration so far.

There are other mountains to climb, another day. Other mountains I do not want to face. One by one, they are trembling at the touch of His hands. And the tears on the mountain will flow into a healing river for me.

It is never easy to share my heart with anyone. It is a struggle to share my life with people in this blog. I intend to always be brutally honest about myself, what I went through, what I am going through now. Saying that, it is especially difficult for me to share about the personalities I had, with the MPD. I have spent a lifetime protecting most of their identities. But as I go farther into healing, I am feeling like I shall slowly begin to share with you about them. Share with you who they were, what their designated purposes were, so you can get a fuller picture of MPD. Even today, I still have a rough time calling them personalities. To me, they were individual people. They were my friends, my family, those I confided in, those who comforted me. They were individual people, who each had a job to do, whether it was to protect, to take the abuse, to hold certain memories, to hold certain feelings, to function. To me, they were the people who helped me survive. They were my companions when I had no one else in my life I could go to. And I still miss them greatly. I still grieve and cry because they are gone. My heart still feels hollow. So gradually, as a tribute to them, I will begin to share their stories with you, a little at a time. They made me who I am today.

Annie’s Story: Ride The Tears

Warning to abuse survivors.There may be things in this blog that may upset or trigger you.      My life has always played out in bits and pieces. Even now, my memories of Annie are just a portion of a whole song. I’m always hoping to hear the rest of that song, but it just hasn’t unfolded yet. More memories of her have come to me over the years.There have always been some clear memories of her, but there are so many missing chords to her song. I could describe what she looked like, her raspy voice, her smile, her kindness. I could tell you the color of the wallpaper, and the texture of it in her home. I could tell you the color and the feel of the towels in her bathroom. I could tell you she made such an impression on me that I still hold her in my heart today. I know she had an incredible singing voice, and she gave me my love for music. I cry to this day,listening to music, because in a bittersweet way it reminds me of Annie.It takes me back to the beautiful memories of her,but with the beauty, comes the sorrow. This is my tribute to Annie.

I knew Annie when I was between the ages of three to five. By that point, I already had developed MPD. I believe Annie was an incredibly wonderful person, who was like a loving mother to me, the little while I knew her. Somehow, my grandfather knew her. As always, my memories are just in fragments. Over the years, flashbacks and reliving things has brought more back to me. She lived in a town, that, to this day, I still can’t bear to drive through. I dissociate and have flashbacks constantly, any time I do have to go to that town. Memories of her wash over me daily. Certain times of year, this increases. August is a month that’s tough to reckon with.

I have spent my life, cherishing the good memories of Annie, while trying to shut out the horrors I see in flashbacks. She never did anything bad. For years, I’ve been told by a few therapists, that all my memories and flashbacks are accurate, but that one memory I have of what happened to Annie isn’t accurate, that it can’t be, that it didn’t happen. I don’t know how everything else can be right, except this one thing. I have only ever shared this memory with four people. Three of them were therapists, one was a friend. Other than those people, I have never shared Annie’s story. Writing about her brings a smile to my face, yet, tears to my heart. I’m not ready to share the depths of this story yet. What I will share, is just a glimpse into it. My heart is not yet ready to share it all at this time. Sharing it now, means another step out of denial. Not an easy step to take, but one that must be taken to heal more. Sitting here, writing about her, my face is drenched. I ride the tears of her memories now.

I don’t even know if her name was Annie. It’s just what I’ve referred to her as for years. I doubt my mother ever met Annie, but she hated her, because I loved Annie and she loved me. Annie hated it that I was abused, and I would tell my mom that. I have no idea how often I visited Annie with my grandfather. I loved going there, though. I’d go from being in my home, being abused, to going to Annie’s home- her kneeling down with open arms to greet me. She was the one person I ever totally trusted. She was the only person I ever felt completely safe with.

Several years ago, I saw a therapist, who looked so much like Annie, that I spend each session lost in flashbacks and reliving my time with Annie. My three year old personality, Stevie, kept wanting to go up to my therapist and ask her, “Are you mad at me?” The other personalities never let him ask her that til much later. He spent two years wanting to ask her if she was mad at him. He’d sit there in her office, seeing her as Annie, describing the wallpaper in Annie’s house, describing the kitchen, the bathroom, thinking she was definitely Annie, because he was seeing it all right then, playing out before his eyes.  There were days I couldn’t go to therapy, because Stevie would be violently ill from the flashbacks of what happened to Annie. Seeing the therapist morph into Annie each week, was so bittersweet. It brought back more good memories, yet the bad memories played out more fully. It was the place where the beginning of integrating personalities began,too, because of the memories of Annie.

Annie had seen my bruises and my wounds, from when I was age three to five. She knew my grandfather had seriously cut me, and she hated him for it. She’d take care of me, while I was at her home. She hated it that my grandfather let some guys he knew- pay him for the opportunity to abuse me, taking their turns with me. She would try to stop it, but couldn’t. Afterwards, she’d hold me and comfort me. Whatever I’d just been through, I felt totally safe being by her, afterwards.

One day, Annie was gone. I’ve spent my life looking in people’s faces to find her. A three to five year old doesn’t understand death. She had always been very protective of Stevie, to those who abused him. One day, someone got furious that she was protecting Stevie. All of this has played out in flashbacks over the years, and this is the apparently controversial part of my memories. I just know what I see in flasbacks, what I relive, how I feel, and what my reactions are. I know I can’t bear to see anyone in tremendous pain, like after a surgery. I almost faint, and I dissociate and have flashbacks of this, if anyone is in pain. I know all my life, I’ve had horrific flashbacks of blood everywhere. Rivers of blood, I’ll see everywhere, at times- across the road, on any floor, on any wall. Just rivers of blood.

Violence killed Annie.

The ride home later that night with my grandfather, we were both silent, stunned, no words came. Stevie was confused, terrified without Annie to protect him anymore. Once home, getting in bed, Stevie told “our mom” what happened to Annie. She was happy about it. And Stevie knew he no longer had anyone to protect him from the life of abuse that was to come.

One moment, Annie had been there. The next moment she was gone. Taken violently. There has been a hole in my heart ever since then. Only my grandfather and my mother knew of this, and no comfort came from them. I was left to deal with it on my own. I have looked at every face I have ever seen, all my life, looking for Annie, hoping it wasn’t true. Up until age ten, I would get bold, trying to look people in the face, to see if they were her. At times, the emptiness in my heart, feels like the wind blowing through a ghost town.

Violence needs to stop. Abuse needs to stop.Nobody has the right to abuse anyone or to take someone’s life.

As I listen to music, Annie feels closer. With the beautiful memories of her, I have to endure the painful memories, too. Music has always comforted me, settled my soul. I owe that to her, singing to me, soothing my wounds with her voice. The world was robbed of a wonderful person, the day she died. I was robbed of someone who showed me love, when the rest of the world seemed a desolate place. I am held in the song of the love she showed me. I am trying to learn to trust people the way I trusted her. The hollow place in my heart fills with song and the memory of her voice, her kindness, her gentleness and love.

Tears stream down my face. My heart still mourns today. At times,there are just no words. Music shall fill those places today. Annie lives on in the music, even today.

All those times when Stevie kept wanting to ask that therapist who looked like Annie, if she was mad at him, was because he felt her death was his fault. One day, he finally asked her if she was mad, and she very graciously talked to him about it.

Today, healing still rides the sky. Sharing Annie with others in my writing, isn’t easy. It means I must face the truth that has hidden in shadows for a lifetime. It means, someday, I may quit looking in people’s faces for her. But for today, the music plays, and my tears are memories of her pouring forth, to share with you.

Born in Thunder&Lightning

I was born in the thunder and lightning of my mother’s hatred for me. I was born in the thunder and lightning of abuse. By age three, my MPD had already developed in the thunder and lightning of my pain. And across the width and depth of the sky, far into the heavens, my cries reached God’s heart. His arms were the only place I had to run to. My tears covered the pathway to Him.My tears bled from my wounds.My heart lay open-raw from being torn apart. I was born in the thunder and lightning of the secrets of the days and nights.

Mary Magdalene was always someone I could relate to. From the age of not knowing why people did such ugly things to me,to the age of understanding who Mary Magdalene was.And from the time my mom first started trying to talk me into becoming a prostitute until even now-I’ve felt the connection with her flowing.My mother hated it each time I refused to become a prostitute.It was her dream for me.  Through the filth of things that were done to me, to the things said to me, and being an outcast most of my life, I have carried this with me everywhere.Being made an outcast,was mostly done to me by others.But after years of that,I also enforced it upon myself.

One thing God has been working on in me the past few days, is to help me see I need to get rid of some old feelings and perceptions that still hold me captive. I need to quit feeling the filth that I’ve always felt from the abuse done to me. I need to lose the shame that should really be felt by my abusers instead. I need to quit being terrified of everyone and everything. I need to see myself through the eyes of a renewing heart now. I’ve always thought of myself as filth, the lowest of low. I’ve always felt a pile of garbage was better than me. Felt lesser than a pig rooting around in the mud and it’s own  waste. It’s how I was treated.

After one form of abuse I endured at times,when I was age three to age five- afterwards, my mother made me sit on a filthy blanket on the floor. A way to degrade me for what I’d just had to endure. She always told me that no one would ever want me;that no one could ever love me. She knew what her father did to me,but never stopped it. She was there at times. She used me,too. I was told it was what I was there for.

So,when I see movies of Mary Magdalene, crawling through dirt to get to Jesus, I see myself there, in the dirt-not sure if I should reach out to Him. And now I feel God telling me to let go of how I’ve always seen myself.To lose the limitations I put upon myself. To lose the ugliness I see myself in. To be who I am meant to be. To be filled with Him,instead of who I see myself as. To simply-be filled with Him. To really surrender to the fullness of His love.

Deep within me, there has always been the feeling that God must hate me,too, and that’s why bad things happened to me. Deep within, I felt in a way, that He had abused me, by allowing the abuse and other things to happen.Even now, I still wait for horrible things to happen to me, because I just can’t get the total concept of love-especially unconditional love. I’ve always had in the back of my heart, that if so many people hate me, then God must hate me,too. So, I find myself surrendering this week- to the fullness of God’s love. The floodgates are opening.

God is pulling all the old feelings of worthlessness,filth, hatred for myself, disgust with myself- out by the roots. For every root He is pulling out, He is filling that space with His love. Filling it with confidence that He loves me. Filling me, moving in me; raining grace down upon me now. Capturing my heart, fully.

I find it very challenging to see myself in a new light, when all I see is the flashbacks playing like a bad movie before my eyes. The only way I’ve ever seen things, is through a distorted mirror-reflecting my abusers hatred. I’ve always seen everything through a heart that has steeled itself against hurt. But the love of God far outweighs all of that. Grace is falling,now, in the thunder and lightning of this healing pouring down on me. The thunder and lightning of this healing is a dance unto all that will unfold in time.

For every breath, God is breathing new life into me; new healing and restoration. For every breath, I am growing closer to Him. For every prayer I pray, I am coming into the presence of Him who bled and died on the cross for me. How could I not spend so much time with Him? After all these years of healing, He has sheltered me and rocked me to the rhythm of His heartbeat. He has shown me His heart. He has saturated me with all He is. For every pain I endured, I believe a blessing will come. For every wound, healed or unhealed yet, the fragrance of His healing will rise to touch others. The breath of storms past, shall bring sweet rains to others in the thunder and lightning, too.

Where tears fall, the fragrance of God can arise. Where I  fall, the imprint is felt in His heart. Where I hurt, it resonates throughout Him, like a tsunami. Where I doubt, there is room to drink in more of Him. I thirst for Him more every day. And the glory of His grace is enough for me.

I was born in the thunder and the lightning of terror years ago. I am being born once more, but in the thunder and lightning of more of His tender healing; His tender mercies; His mighty love. I feel the cleansing. I am feeling cleaner than I have ever felt. A heavy burden is lifting. I cannot describe it. All I can do is pray. All I can do is love Him more.Mountains are trembling.

Small Giants

As a warning to those who have been abused-there is content in this blog that may trigger things for you.                                                           I spent a good part of the weekend at my dad’s house; the house I grew up in. THAT house. The house where I was abused and developed MPD, as a result of that abuse. My mom died twenty-two years ago of leukemia. My dad died in May. But my siblings and I had alot of family business to take care of. So, I was there from 1:30pm Friday til about 4pm Saturday. I hadn’t spent the night there in more than fifteen years. The last time I was there,was briefly in January to see how my dad was,since his health was deteriorating. He hadn’t talked to me in eight years, and he still wanted nothing to do with me. The very last time I saw him, was about a month before he died. The very last thing he ever said to me was, “LEAVE!”

So, over the weekend, I faced alot of giants.

Growing up, my good grandpa had a huge caterpillar tractor. I always wanted to climb up on it, and just sit there, but it was so huge it seemed to be the size of a mountain. Nine years ago, I saw that caterpillar tractor. It was really small. Saturday, I saw it again, and it looked even smaller. Then my son saw it. His response was, “I thought it was alot bigger than that.” It used to seem that way, son.

All my life, my abusers were so much bigger than me. When I was a child, they towered over me. As a teenager, I was still terrified of them. And even lately, still, they’ve seemed huge, even though my abusers are probably all deceased now. Up until just recently, some people were still telling horrible, ugly lies about me, so nobody would believe anything I said. And there are some, who believe whatever they want, and treat me accordingly. Saturday, all people still seemed like giants to me.

I had been dreading having to spend a good part of the weekend at THAT house. My flashbacks had been getting worse. I’d been dissociating alot more. Once I got to the house, everything intensified. My giants of every kind grew even bigger. I saw each room I was abused in. I was walking through the rooms of memories, reliving it all, in each room. I saw the barn where I was abused, in ways I may never share with anyone. I saw the other buildings. There weren’t many buildings I wasn’t abused in. My son wanted me to show him the creek, but I wasn’t ready to take that walk there. Maybe another day, I can face that giant. I walked through every inch of my past, through every inch of the house and buildings.

Sleeping in my old room was a nightmare in itself. I couldn’t fall asleep til after 1 am. Every noise I heard became my mother or grandfather coming up the steps to come into my room. It was like my life flashing before my eyes in flashbacks most of the night. Having to get up in the middle of the night still terrified me. I expected my mom or grandpa to grab me in the bathroom. To this day, I still dissociate any time I am in a bathroom, because of abuse that I was put through in bathrooms. Saturday night, my past echoed through my mind, in a storm throughout the darkness. Lightning in my soul illuminated the hail and the downpour of every memory- the good, the bad, the evil. Thunder rumbled as I faced each memory that invaded my soul.

Everywhere I looked, I saw my mom and my grandpa coming at me. I saw them abusing me. I saw my mother coming into my room at night, to abuse me in ways I may never be able to speak of. My grandfather was there, abusing me, too. Through each flashback I was having, my abusers towered over me. I was three. I was fifteen. I went through every year I lived there. I trembled, always on the edge of tears.

Going through enormous amounts of old family photos didn’t help me either. Some people there wondered why I didn’t want hardly any pictures of my mother or grandfather. I have pictures of them, here in my own home, but they’re put away so I don’t have to see them. I only get them out when my son wants to see them. And then I feel sickened looking at them. We didn’t get to looking at the old family movies over the weekend. I don’t think I’m ready to go through those any time soon. Pictures are scary enough to go through. But seeing my mom and grandpa on a screen, moving around, I’d really be lost in flashbacks. It would set me back into the haunting of the past.Traces of my childhood played out on film before my eyes is another giant for another time.

All my life, looking at photos, I could identify which personality was in the picture. I can still tell that, looking at old pictures. So, I can imagine that would be even more evident to me in old movies. Looking at the pictures, made me miss my personalities even more. Partly, just because I still deeply grieve for them being gone. But I also missed them over the weekend, because it was the first time I’d spent the night in that house without my personalities, since I was three years old. The personalities were created in that house when I was three. They got me through everything I endured. But last weekend, I was there without them, without their comfort, without their strength. I was there in reality for the first time since I was little. The giants loomed above me, constantly.

But as Saturday afternoon went on, like grandpa’s caterpillar tractor being smaller than it always seemed, so my giants had grown smaller. I’d spent the weekend facing so many things from my past. I had stood and trembled, but yet, I stood in the face of them all. I’d felt sickened by all the memories. I’d hated touching things my abusers had owned. I hated seeing them in pictures and in memories. I hated being in that house, in those rooms, in those buildings, and in that fear. But, I stood and faced it all. By the time I left Saturday, I felt somewhat taller. My abusers seemed smaller, finally.

Since then, my flashbacks and dissociating has been intense, but it’s all starting to settle down somewhat, now. I don’t want to go back to that house any time soon. But I did face a lifetime of giants, and they seem like small giants now. I am exhausted,still. But I am dancing a bit of a victory dance that I made it through each of those rooms of my life.I made it through each of those rooms of abuse. Inch by inch I revisited what I endured, who abused me, the fear, the shame, the disgust for them. And inch by inch, I conquered more than I ever imagined possible. I feel a little more free. I found a little more of myself. The world seems a little less scary. And I dance.