DID Means Never Being Alone :)

DID – or MPD (or BPD – it depends) – means a lot of things to a lot of folks.  To some it merely means “being crazy”.  For others it means being plagued by interior demons.  And for some others it means the classic sort of symptoms: depression, anxiety, a loss of emotion – in the more severe cases it can lead to amnesia, doing things without ‘one’ being constantly aware – and many other things.

DID, by the way (and just in case you haven’t picked up on it by now), is a complex, baffling diagnosis.  It is even baffling to us who ‘suffer’ from this thing – though I would not call it ‘suffering’, not anymore.  For me – (and with a warmness inside that is impossible describe, “we”) – it is a wonderful thing.

For one thing, it means “I” am never ‘alone’.  Neither are any of the other ‘parts’ in us.  (Though I – and WE – prefer that we refer to them as Souls.)  Each is equipped with his (or her) own set of emotions; sexual preferences, outlooks and things.  Some ‘love’ one thing while ‘others’ in us hate it.  We can ‘see’ being ‘both ways’ on any side of a conversation.  Hell, we can even argue “pro-child abuse” if we wanted to (while secretly condemning the whole thing).  Or we can’t.  Either way . . .

It’s an interesting way of being.

One of our interesting effects has been the pursuit of knowledge – about everything!  As long as I (or We) or anyone of us can remember being, we’ve always been the consummate consumer of facts and knowledge.  After all, “knowledge is power” – and as a child (and later as an upcoming adult knowledge gave us the ‘power’ to survive – sometimes in some pretty horrific and poverty stricken equations.  It made the difference between us being ‘alive’ sometimes – and us being dead.  Yeah.  I know.  I’ve stared Death in the face a time or two, starting at the age of three.

I don’t know when we first started splitting . . . I definitely think I was ‘splitting’ when I (or rather “He”) was the age of three.  Sitting right there in that chair . . . watching and waiting for the ‘bad men’ to come in and get me – taking me to some Home For Bad Boys where I would be down on my knees all day scratching at floors with a broom and a brush.  Sore bloody knees . . . I remember imagining them as my momma went on and on, my brother sitting there wailing away . . . me quiet and stoic – somewhat mad (and probably in more ways than one; the abuse had begun a long time before) . . . and ‘putting myself away’ and ‘going in there’: The Bad Boys Home . . . and realizing I wanted to be there more than here anymore; ‘seeing’ in my mind its endless pine board hallways (the windows, like big school windows – which I never had seen – are on the left) – looking at myself (knelt facing me, the windows on his right) – the hard paneled (raised panel) doors . . . those endless hallways and a line of boys scrubbing . . . a hard ‘headmaster’ or someone beating me with a belt – only using it like a whip (see “This” for an example of how my life was being) . . .

and somehow it seemed better than this.  The image of all those boys . . . we wouldn’t be scrubbing floors forever.  Sooner or later we’d be led to rooms (there to sleep on hard iron cots and/or bunks, no doubt) – where we’d become friends – despite the beatings, the friendships would continue . . . love would shine through all . . .

and somehow that seemed better than this.

Go figure.  I can’t – won’t – there’s a terrible sadness inside, but nothing we can’t bear (We hold ‘him’ and cuddle ‘him’ deep within ourselves, crying tears of sadness on him . . . and he feels our love – for we can ‘feel’ it, feel within him . . . since ‘he’ is one of us, our friends . . . we smile at each other (ourselves) and a warmth comes out/in . . .

and we’re feeling good about ourselves and stuff.  Yes – hard to bear: we can feel tears stinging in our eyes – but also a glorious happiness and warmth . . .

for we won’t die alone . . .

There’s a comfort in that sort of thing; that kind of thought.  When you think – you realize – that “this” will go on forever . . . that it really doesn’t matter as long as you have fun, have had an interesting life – something going on – something you’ve created and not left undone . . . it begins ….

I remember several times in our lives when we came close to dying.  Very close, my friends.  And sitting (laying, actually, or swimming once) – we felt that surge of regrets for things left undone (it comes right before that period of acceptance when you are willing to ‘move on’) – and knew a great sadness . . .

That’s never going to stop.  There’s too many ‘people’ inside ourselves to get everything done we’d like to get done – but we’ve got the most of them . . .

like loving our own selves inside – and out.  Loving others despite the things they do.  Being willing to draw boundaries when we need them – or crossing others when they (other folks) need them to survive.  But for the most part we are into leaving folks alone.  Let them do as they do; they will learn in time.  Or not.  Either way, it isn’t mattering to me or anyone else ‘in here’.

For we are not alone.

We are in this together.

All of us in love.
and I’m hoping that includes you, my friend.  All of us ‘in love’ – in love with all mankind.

After all.
It’s the only way to be.

It’s not about where you are going – it’s about never being alone . . . for an endless journey ahead . . .”

And that, my friends, is something “we” are never going to be: alone.

🙂

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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)
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