I see “the surgeon” tomorrow, the one who amputated my toes. I wonder what kind of person it takes to look at a foot rotted black, take a saw and hack off a body part to be thrown away? What allows his mind to go there and his hands to follow? Though beyond repair, black as night, shriveled to nothing and dry, they were still mine.
My heart knows 100% that this surgeon was one who helped save my life, mine and many others. He is loved and honored, rightfully put on a pedestal. He has taken people with slim odds and brought them back from the brink. In my heart I see him that way, but behind my eyes I see the man who methodically removed part of me and threw me away.
A person can’t live in this world and be innocent. It took me a long time to understand what innocence means. The day it was taken from me I understood the meaning of fear and began to question trust. The day it was taken from me and the subsequent assaults that held it before me like a worm on a hook, I began to understand what it means to be vulnerable and without control over my environment, helpless, completely dependent on others for my safety. I understood what it meant to be worthless and bad. When I was innocent I had no concept of these things. That’s what innocence is, having no reason to doubt, fear or question the stability of your little world.
I listened to the first 3 min of a video where a person was talking about how well they treated their significant other, but it wasn’t appreciated. I could only bear a few min of it. What got me the most was that she said, I’m not perfect but, you guys know me, ……..” I figure, if a person starts a conversation with, “I’m not perfect but…” then you can be pretty sure they’ve done something they need to apologize for. What she said in those few minutes got me thinking about the way I think and the way I communicate.
My first and most intimate lessons in communication had to do with figuring out what was expected of me from a woman who had a singular agenda that did not include me. My first and most intimate lessons in communication included weaving in and around insults or crafting my statements to avoid being accused of disobedience. My chief instructor, the person responsible for every aspect of my life, was crazy.
I walked thin lines and broke them repeatedly. I’d go over in my head how to do it better, say it better, how to keep from being a disappointment. I was one of those kids that tried all sorts of creative ways to be who she needed to be. I couldn’t figure it out because I was missing one piece of information; her agenda doesn’t include you.
It is clear to me that youth was nothing more than a performance lacking true emotion and conviction.
After taking my freedom, after being in therapy half of my life, I still struggle to show on my face what I’m feeling inside. I use words or I paint to explain myself. I can be suicidal and laugh in the same conversation, but this time I know to tell the person ahead of time that I’ve not broken the conditioning in this area. I have to tell them to listen to what I’m saying, please don’t look at my smiling face.
I’m old school, diagnosed in 1992 so I still call it MPD as well as Dissociative Identity Disorder. What ever you wish to call it one thing remains true – I’m not alone in my head.
The reason I’m writing today is because I visited a young woman who reminded me of how difficult it can be to feel as if nothing belongs solely to me. As time passed and therapy got deeper there was a decrease in the resentment I felt for constantly living as many.
Keep in mind please, that in order to develop Dissociative Identity Disorder / Multiple Personality Disorder, there must be major trauma in the child’s life. The word trauma is an important one because it doesn’t have to be abuse that triggers the extreme dissociative response. I personally know a young man who feels he first split while under going constant excruciating medical care as a child. No matter if it was long term abuse or other long term traumas, the mind will try to protect itself.
I know as a child nothing at all was mine. My body wasn’t mine, my thoughts weren’t mine, my actions were determined by what trauma was taking place. I had no freedom and no control over anything. So now I’m a multiple and still nothing is my own.
Let me discuss that for a second. I have always understood that each of us alters has split from the original personality. Yes, we feel very strongly separate from who we call the “original” personality but we do know we all originate from her. Moving on.
Think about never having a single, solitary moment to yourself. How do you think that would feel? When you eat at the table, type entries such as this, when you walk the dog, or take a bath the alters are with you. Your thoughts aren’t private, they’re heard by the inside personalities called alter personalities. Sometimes they chat among themselves, just stuff, but the incessant talking can become very troublesome if not managed in therapy. When I sit in therapy, take a bubble bath, read a book, paint, sit in the dark, use the restroom, brush my teeth, close the blinds, on and on and on there’s always someone else with whom I must share that moment.
At first this was a big issue for me but as I said, I’ve been in therapy for a long time. Gracious, I feel like a veteran. LOL, but I know these emotions are legitimate and that they do gradually become less of a burden when managed by a licensed professional.
I need to be clear on one thing. We didn’t choose this and neither did the alter personalities. Though some multiples have parts/alters that are difficult, many of us do not. I have alters that work together for the most part. In the beginning we were all over the place. Good gracious!! That was horrible. We could not get it together for the world. We didn’t understand that there was a whole system (group) of us and that what one alter does affects the others. For instance, lets say Alter A came out and thought it would be ok to give intimate details of our life to my birth mother. That alter may not remember how bad it was at home so speaking to my mother wouldn’t be as traumatizing for her. However, since she is not the only alter here, the difficulty falls on Alter B, C and D.
It took quite a long time before we all realized, on whatever level we could, that we share this body, this mind. Everything we do or don’t do affects the others in the system. Getting up and moving to Texas isn’t a decision we all made, but we were all affected by it. Promiscuity wasn’t a decision we all made, but we all felt degraded by it. We are not alone in this head of ours.
The drawings included were created in 2010. They illustrate the life of a multiple. What’s interesting to me is how one piece shows a whole group holding hands with a sunflower behind them. It’s almost like a show of solidarity, a solidarity that includes the original personality.
I paint with my heart and all but bleed on canvas. Painting is a powerful way to release anxiety and thoughts that pound my skull. While art as a whole is therapeutic for me, there are certain pieces that were created specifically as therapy with my psychologist. As I thin out the amount of art in my home, I’d like to make available on a continued basis, some of the art pieces created during my therapy sessions or at a later time.
As I said, art therapy has been one of the most powerful tools in my healing process. I can’t explain to you the relief I feel knowing that some of my abuse memories have lost their sting when I was professionally guided with the tool of art therapy.
This entry shows art two art pieces with a purpose. Rise, fall if I must. Stand to meet the challenge. What’s the challenge? I’ve got to get a hold of my stinking thinking. I have to change my outlook one single color at a time if necessary. While writing I felt a sense of urgency and desperation. I could all but see myself at a door grabbing the handle and pulling it, ripping at.
Lets talk more about the art at the root of these emotions.
Landfall
Creating non objective abstract art started with a self challenge in June of 2014. I really wanted to create some of the beautiful art I was seeing, but it didn’t think I had it in me to do that type of art. When I first challenged myself I said I’d do 10 paintings. I wasn’t looking forward to it because it was as if I had no idea where to start, let alone know how to finish.
Though I’m still learning, I can say I have left behind the anxiety. I enjoy it creating non-objective abstract art. I find it soothing to create and I actually feel I know when to start. As a matter of fact I start non-objective abstract such as “Landfall” the same way I begin other art, with a single stroke.
I don’t think too hard and I sure don’t plan ahead. When it comes to art, if I plan ahead then I’m planning for a disaster. I start art with one single stroke and go from there. I paint from the hip…..not literally because that would be uncomfortable. My next challenge with abstracts is to paint them larger. Continue reading “Landfall Abstract Ocean Scene”
Times 32 on the multifunctional remote, flash blurred scenes for you. My eyes have processed them all, bit by bit, no translation of hue or tone lost to speed.
I see. I hear. I can’t make it stop.
Pulled plugs, short circuit, a hundred failed attempts to rewire.
Still I hear
every car honk, every cellphone ring and every exasperated, exhausted,
needy inner plea, burned in the screen of my mind .
I look at the drawing called “The Hide” and question how much I should reveal concerning it’s symbolism. I’m sure if viewed long enough it will interpret itself without me or anyone else having uttered a word. However, if one word were to wrap up how I felt as the ink crossed on paper, that word would be vulnerable. Vulnerable is the dominant emotion felt when I display art that expresses Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Dissociative Identity Disorder.
My heart sinks with each intricate line that builds a fortress from the inside out. Figure after figure emerges with each level of lines. Though the staircase would appear to lead down to the central black figure, in my mind it leads up. The figure is in a fortress of her own making, and that fortress is….. I’m not sure how to end the sentence.
