To Thine Own Self Be True – But Lie to Everyone Else

“To thine own self be true.”  “Know yourself.”  But don’t let others find out; don’t let them know the ‘true you’.

Kinda puts things into opposition, doesn’t it?  We’ve found that out – and it’s been a major battle all of our lives.

Honesty.  Lies.  The freedom to be honest with you.  The lies we sometimes tell.

We were lying to you when we said, “We’re fine!”  We’re hardly fine; in fact we’re not fine after all.

We are a horrible being.  We are a wonderful thing.

Maybe the truth lies somewhere in between.

We’ve found we don’t belong – not all of ‘you’ (here addressing my inner selves – my ‘parts’ if you will, a more ‘socially polite’.  After all, we don’t have inner selves and alters and things.  We have just parts and sides.  We must’ve lied to you – you were mistaken sometime.)

We’ve never fit in – not since the very beginning.  For one thing, I was the wrong child at the right time.  A male when they wanted the other.  I guess I’m to blame for that one – coming out a kid rather than an adult for you, and a male one (which my mother can’t stand.)

I never fit in in high school; never quite fit in in any one of the number of schools (and some neighborhoods) from when we were getting bounced around (courtesy of the US Army; a trip that’s gonna take a lifetime of ‘getting over’, if I ever ‘get over’ that sort of thing . . . having no hometown – nor even name – one which to call my own.

Home is where you plant your ass for some time longer than you did before.
Home is where you make it.

When we went to our high school reunion we didn’t fit in.  Sure – we were the technical one, we knew how to get things done – provided the tools right there!  (extension cords and tape; tape guns for easy dispensing; AV engineer making sure the sound system worked and things) . . . but in the end (and I do mean at the very end, right there in the email and spam) – we were rejected; a slap in the face – not for what we’d done but for poking fun at something we’d seen . . .

they said they all remembered me as having done one of three things: reading, writing, or working in the lab.  That’s it.  And the art thing of course.  Quite a few of them remembered I was an artist.  I was one of the best ones in the school – and the ONLY one who could make ‘creative art from scratch’ – meaning copying the visions in my head.  The others – they had to copy something real.  One of them could do portraits – sit right down there and she’d do you up, or working from a photograph.  The other one was a copywork artist – able to copy and duplicate anything he’d ever seen and held in his hands.  Not an original thought at all.  I was the only one there (voted best 3 artists) who could create something from ‘memory’, or from a vision that I had seen.  Something truly creative and from the heart.

And that made me different.  It made them dislike me – or at least the portrait artist – she hated me with an insane passion – the other one just felt sad.  He couldn’t help me and I couldn’t help him get any better (he was already very good) -so we each commiserated in our misery – him for not being able to come up with any original kind of idea – and me for wishing I was like him: widely accepted; a popular person, and one who was good with the girls.  (In that area I made many friends – and friends were what they were.  Nothing BUT friends – in areas and topics from “should I get an abortion?” (not me! I didn’t do it – and I advised her that she should) – to “should I get my breasts reduced?” (this from a well endowed girl and friend of mine who was a) tired of her on-going – and getting crippling backaches, and b) was tired to talking to all the guys while they stared down at her enormous cups.)  We advised her she should (while trying not to stare down so much – those things were enormous!) – since they were giving her some serious back problems.  She thanked me and went on to do it.  Yeah guys: I betrayed the male ‘race’ by advising her to do that.  Go figure (lol’ing).  I wanted her to be true to herself – doing what made her felt best.  (and as for that baby: the girls father was an abusing drunkard along with her much older brother; she’d been gang raped by the ROTC squad – and her mother had just died.  She was in no condition nor household to be raising some child.  I knew this . . . and I was 15?  Anyway . . . I helped her do it.  I had to.  She was my friend . . .)

But I never quite fit in.  Not even with her – tho’ she was close.  But she and me used to get drunk some of the times . . . never made love to her; she said ‘wait until you’re twenty-one’.  And I did.  Another misfit thing of mind.  Screwed in the butt as a child – but can’t get it on with a friend.  Story of my life sometimes.

People say we are good friends – and then they abandon us.  We fall in love – and then they go away, or it is inappropriate or something (part of that is us being bisexual – that causes lots of things.  Not that we’ve engaged in ‘that’ (gay) part of ourselves since we were twenty-one or so.  Another reason we don’t ‘fit in’.  Not even into ‘normal human relationships’.  But sometimes we try.  That’s always a big mistake.

Never fitting in.
Telling someone lies.
That’s what it’s all about.

And yeah –
we’re just fine.


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)
This entry was posted in child abuse survivor. Bookmark the permalink.

Go Ahead. You were thinking . . . ?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s