The Machine

It was my ‘alter’ (he doesn’t mind the term; he’s harsh) – Matthew (not his ‘real’ name, he doesn’t ‘like’ it, but that’s okay; we do this because of that stupid social stigma thing).  Mr. Sam I Am finally helped us identify this alter for what he is: the Defender.  And it makes so much sense.  He’s the one who arose somewhere between 12 and 13 (it takes time to ‘develop’ a ‘controller’ from and for the ‘system’).  He ‘put down the tools’ (basically) when we were about 24? 23? – We would have to look at our old journals from the mid-80’s (scribbled, his writing – shorthanded).  Doesn’t matter.  We remember very clearly the day, the time – the ROOM (classroom, 8th grade?) – Mr. Bell’s class, science – Mr. Bell was a preacher, but screwed us. (Matt! damnit!)

Okay, tell Matt (sigh)

Early morning, sunshine coming in through the windows; they are to the left; door to the right; old style high ceilinged room; science lab up front.  We have lost all our friends.  Not due to us; due to moving.  Always friggin’ moving.  Moving.  Moving.  Moving again.  Now we are here.  And I hate it.  My parents are getting a divorce.  Serves him right, f-ing a**hole.  Momma’s a b****. Brother (here we feel rage rage rage anger!) — SOB. Shootin’ me and sh**.

We are sick of it sick of it sick of it all.  So we sit there staring at the graffitti on the desk.  Old ancient desk, inkwell and all; scrolled black iron sides; my seat is the guy in backs desk.  Sucks this place.  Freakin’ tired of being alone.  Tired of losing my friends.  Remembering D.B. my last friend overseas god how I loved him but oh f’ing well, you know military life couldn’t get worse.  You meet knowing you are dead; meeting friends new kids already gone and dead gonna be that way anyway.

Really sucks.  And f’ing love sucks.  (hatred here; burning rage)  We decide on this thing: no more love and no more pain.  Whatever it takes.  We are going to build the Machine: the perfect f-ing machine no one gets through no one gets out we are going to armor plate it with tough emotions nothing else just sick of the pain sick sick sick (nausea from heartache? yes, aching deep, we all feel it, oh the wonders of DID sucks.)

pause for station identification, LO nervous L’s – we are waiting for Matt to come out of his funk.

Gee; the raw emotion of that kid.

Okay, we’re sorta ‘sending him away’ – this guys HURT bad badly bad oh yeah.  Gee..

I don’t know about you folks, but … DID?  It’s like this: you get to feel what your parts feel – all … the …. freakin’ time!!!  Can be ..difficult.

O’tay, quick before we fade:

Matthew built the Machine.  We ‘grew’ hard and cold and callous and yes – even very cruel sometimes – extremely so.  Angry (oh yes, so very very very angry) – parents divorcing and he knew it was just a hoax (and it was, they remarried immediately after the divorce – as he knew they would, just as he saw the divorce coming before they did – and seeing it, knew this end wouldn’t be the end of the abuse; they’d still get back together all just one big JOKE – a bitter joke, a bad joke, a joke that made him sick and on more drugs; yeah, the illegal kind and drinking himself drunk).

And we hung onto that machine for years and years – until one crisp autumn evening in 1984(?) when . . .

On a ‘date’, don’t care.  Don’t care about the girl.  Don’t want none noways.  Hate ’em all; hating love.  We are at the fair.  We get on a ride that goes round and round; lifts you high above the crowd.  We look down.  And we’re seeing …..

Break here.  When I say “We”, we went from “he” (Matthew) just ‘seeing’ to US ALL seeing –

The crowd down below.  There are people leaning on each other’s arms; happy couples, little children running; goddamnit there’s love down there and they’re happy and I’m not and what the F! IS WRONG WITH ME!

And that, gentlemen and ladies of our audience, was when we sent “M3” bursting forth, shattering that ‘armor’ and that ‘shell’.

The next 2 or 3 years were hell.

We’ll talk about that sometime later.  Time to go be gentle and help Matthew.  He’s still ‘crying’ (he never seems quite able to cry; WE never cried for 40 years until about 2 weeks ago).

Wish us luck, and wish him peace.  This poor soul needs some. (sigh)

Off to the races

Jeffery and I (Elvis) and the crowd.


About jeffssong

JW is an adult childhood abuse survivor with DID*. He grew up in a violent family devoid of love and affection. He is a military brat and veteran. He no longer struggles with that past. In 1976 JW began writing "The Boy". It took 34 years to complete. It is currently on Kindle ( ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( JW resides somewhere in the deep South. He is disabled and living with family. Note: Please feel free to take what you need; all is free to all. With that in mind, keep it that way to others. Thank you. We have 3 Blogs - One for our younger days, 0-10 (The Little Shop of Horrors); one for our Teen Alter and his 'friends' (also alters) with a lot of poetry; and finally "my" own, the Song of Life (current events and things)
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