Long Strange Day . . .

It’s been a long strange day, though it started last night with the winds howling upwards of fifty and sixty miles an hour.  A storm blew through – racing across the countryside like a landslide; flattening everything in its path.  Trees were whipping; I could hear them crackling in the forests around us, and the well-house tipped over, ruining the roof.  (It’s a gift we made for our wife many years ago – and this isn’t the first time the thing’s tipped over – but it’s the last as far as the roof is concerned.)  Her little flowers lay in ruin . . .

I spent the day cleaning up the yard – we own about one acre.  There’s ponds and things; but it was hard; our disability giving us some problem (we have degenerative spinal arthritis, as well as a few other words – fibermyalgia being among them, as well as tissue damage in our knees and hip and things – a result of too many falls in the Marines; 18 some odd plus auto accidents; being dropped (literally) into the desert one time (going 30 mile an hour) – as well as a few other things.)

The first thing we saw was a baby bird.  At first we were puzzled – looking from above (high on the porch) – it looked like some kind of sea turtle – only one with fur or something on it.  Little flippers or fins kept sweeping the sand – until we got down and saw it was a little bird, using its wings to try to creep along.  Nearby lay its dead brother (or sister; I can’t tell) – all covered in ants and things.  We picked up the little bird – it was chilled and soaked – and putting it in a rag, we placed it on the water heater.  Later on when it was warm we put it back outside – near, but not too near its dead brother.  We didn’t want ants to get in the way.  After moving it around nearly a dozen times (and not seeing one bird who flew by indicating recognition) – we found this nest – a sturdy construction.  It looks soft, but it’s hard as bricks.  We don’t know what kind of bird we had found.  Placing the nest in some of the fallen branches (they lay nearby, and we kept seeing birds go to them) – we got the bird and put it inside.  The inside is lined with the softest, straw yellow grass layer I’ve ever seen; the bowl looks like it’s constructed of grape vines, with grass woven inbetween – only the thing’s clay, with coarse grass and vines on the outside (that’s what we think anchored it in a tree – those vines we saw) – and that oh-so soft layer of softness on the inside, great for raising chicks.

Only this one died.  We shrugged.  We haven’t had much luck in raising baby birds – never.  But we kept the nest aside as we were picking up limbs.  Several of us collect things like that – we have skeletons and such – all kinds of things – and the grandchildren (And some grownups!) are often interested.  It’s a reflection of our scientific interests (including those microscopes and things).

Then we remembered we should call our parents and make sure the house had survived.  It did.  Mom was quite an item; bitching like hell about dad and things – and bitter about her life, and her childhood (“What childhood?” she said, “I never had a childhood.  I had to work from the time I was seven on.”)  And in that there is some truth in things.  She did have a very hard childhood.  She was given ‘custody’ of her sisters and brothers … had to raise them as an ‘only child’ – while her stepfather ran wild; beating her and her mother – sending her to school then taking her money; making her work at a job – and then spending every cent she brought home.  He’d even call her employers to make sure she delivered that last cent.  And if she didn’t – then Bam!  He’d come after her.  He was a vicious cruel bastard some of the times – but then again, he suffered from tremendous PTSD.  He’d fought on the islands of Iwo Jima and things – and related horror stories that make “Saving Private Ryan” look calm and clean in comparison.  (That was one of his favorite things to complain: ‘They don’t make these movies real.  It wasn’t like that at ALL.  The beaches are too clean.  We’d be running over the bodies of dead Marines piled two and three layers (or more) thick – some of them screaming in pain.”  And the thing is: there’s a big difference between a ‘dead body’ and a “blown UP! dead one”.  Blood and guts and things – even worse than you can ever imagine – if you’ve never been to war and things.  The smell is the worst (or as bad as the images).  The stench of death is the stench of burst bowels, blood and things; charred human flesh on the ‘que.

So’s … we talk to her and things, trying to lead her towards something.  Something that’ll stop her bitching.  Something along the lines of happiness.  It doesn’t happen.  She refuses to do anything (“I’m dead inside,” she says.  “Your father killed me.  All the men in my life killed me.”  She used to be a great artist and photographer; not anything anymore.  “And I love to get mad,” she said.  “I’m happy when I’m bitching, and if bitching makes me happy – then I’m gonna do it.”

Apparently not has changed in the past 50 some odd years of our lifetime; basically meaning from day one.  And she’s still quite capable of violence; she’s just to tired to do anything now.

So we go sit and some.  Then we get some intuition.

Then we start spacing away . . .

going into the deep zone …

It’s kinda like getting high – only better and worse and the same time.  You are going deep within your brain.  Disconnection becomes an almost total thing ….

Oh, and BTW, we’ve got this other thing going on.  Saving a man in about a week or so.  Or hopefully saving him and his marriage; his family and friends.  It’s gonna cost me about two thousand dollars – and that’s a hefty sum.  Especially when you’re living on disability.

We kinda doubt we’re gonna be able to save him ….

So we’re thinkin … zoned out on the couch and things … Matthew’s coming … little boy’s in there … and we’re thinkin’ on our problems and things – meaning “OUR” problems; not ‘his’ (meaning anythings in the outside world) . . .

and it comes to us; them words to say.

Something we should give to any counselor to treat us.

Words that bring Matthew to ‘being’ (meaning ‘front side up; calm, cool, feeling his heart – and aching sadness – and things)

“cerulean blue sky”
“lonely country road” (or just about anything to do with a “Summer’s day country road”).
“Little boy’s hand in ours.”
“Mikie’s there.”
“Pine hills and sand lots.”

…. and some things like that.  But the big one is to get that ‘picture’ of us (meaning me and him; meaning Matthew and Mikie FIRST) ‘walking down that country road … hand in hand in hand in hand in hand ….. (gettin’ the DID picture in here?  Invisible ghostly hands) ….

and then we can begin to embrace him (meaning MATTHEW – who to our surprise (though we have drawn him this way before) had Indian like (kinda tangled and dark) hair – lean, muscular; hard angular face and things … see that picture we drawed  (called “The Trial” we think – this blog or on another of our multiple blogs; perhaps the “Shop of Horrors” type thing).

And “he” (matthew) is embracing M3 (adult self) when we ‘use’ those magic words (thus far – we may/he may grow immune to them – he’s resistant in that way) – and ‘we’re’ all able to ‘come together better’ in loving and kindness; compassion, and all those glorious kinds of things … feeling better already for having done it once today … however ….

Wife comes home; 2 day trip.  Hasn’t spoken a word.  No kisses nor hugs.  We attempted to approach her on this thing; nothing was said.  She laid down in the bedroom; we snuggled up beside her (just draping an arm over her and nothing else; holding her close) … and she gets up and leaves us alone.

Not a word.

We aren’t into asking her what’s wrong; we know the answer we’ll get.  The same answer we’ve always gotten about things:


That’s all she’s willing to say (or give us) for the past 25 something years.  “Nothing.”  Whenever anything’s wrong.

Like we’re expected to know.  As we told Her: we can’t read your mind.  But somehow she expects us to anyway.  And it may not even be US – it could be someone else.

We just catch the flak from things.  Kind of a teenage reaction . . ..

or then again it might be ‘us’ – from something major to not doing something the way she ‘wants’ or when she wanted it done ….

or nothing at all.

We’ll never know – for she’s never telling

And that’s the way it is.
News at 11 o’clock and things.
Your coastful commentator signing of on behalf of the majority and system.

Sincerely yours,
Elvis and Friends.

(oh and PS: we’re having to re-re-re-re-read our stupid book and make a few minor corrections.  Hopefully it’ll be on Amazon by July.  Maybe  sooner.  Depends on that man/family thing … travel’s gonna be undependable …. going outside of the continent … internet things gonna be iffy … ya never know down there …)


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 (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004T3IVKK ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( http://www.amazon.com/Boy-J-W/dp/1461022681). 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)
This entry was posted in Alters, child abuse survivor, children, depression, DID, dissociative identity disorder, Life, Marine Corps, Matthew, PTSD and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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