“It’s okay to be different, just so long as you are just like me.”

That seems to be the message society has hammered down – all my life it has been hammered in.  “Don’t be sad, don’t be too glad; show appreciation for what you got – for surely it could have been a lot worse.”

And surely it could have been.  I could have been beaten up much more badly; raped when I was a little kid (instead of being coerced into the thing, using my desire for love as a weapon against me).  It could have been ‘bad’.

“But don’t be too much different.”  That became apparent to me when I was 1013’d – don’t be too happy; don’t be too sad – walk around just a little bit – but not too much (or else they’d judge you to be anxious and needing ‘calming down’) . . .

“No emotions at all.”  That’s what our teenager swore when we turned “13” – or shortly thereafter.  We remember the moment; the second all too well – it happened in Mr. Bell’s Science Home Room class; right there and right then: we ‘changed’ – or began working on a change.  (That’s what this “DID Detectives” thing is all about; us tracking down these ‘changes’ and missing personalities and things.)  But society demands this as well, especially if you’re an adult: don’t act “too happy” and don’t act “too sad”.  And I find it a sad commentary on life and our society when the latter of the two is more acceptable (on a long term basis) than the former, happiness.  “We” were locked up for that thing: being “too happy” and content in ourselves . . . ahh, well, another period (.)

But it seems to me that society has become that of the “outrageous” in some things, clamoring their hands against the keyboard; “speaking out” and such things: proclaiming this thing or that “too bad”, “too sad”, and “we’re gonna have to get rid of that one thing” (whatever that thing may be: there seems to be a lot of them on the plate anymore . . .)

Is it the “America of the Offended” or “America the Righteous Human Beings” (in their own minds and eyes, anyway; working towards pointing out outrage wherever it begins or ends) . . . and I’m all for that sort of thing: ending abuse and Harm.  But . . .

Society says (here in America, anyway – and I thank my lucky Blue Stars and Stripes that I’m living here . . . though Sweden has a nice social system / program . . .) – “we” are allowed to be different . . .

I remember in the old days the “different” man or woman used to live in an old house – alone, sometimes, rejected (there was ONE family in our neighborhood who were the pariahs – no one wanted to visit them, and they were MEAN – an old man and his wife, German.)  But no one ‘rejected’ them outright – they didn’t try locking them up, they didn’t report what they were doing (driving their dogs to drink with them; well I remember those drunk old dogs parading . . . err, ‘staggering’ . . . in short little steps around their overgrown and weedy yard.)

But too different?  Society says: “Give them the queer eye and walk away; you don’t want to know about this stuff.  Stuff them in the corner; put them away . . . you don’t wanna know this ‘friend’.”

For male survivors it’s a double-triple-quadruple decker bus of those things . . . especially here in the South.  (I hear in California it’s more ‘accepted’, if you wanna call being judged ‘queer’ as a result of the thing ‘acceptable’ in some ways . . . and wondering if that’s why you’re bi because of what had happened . . .)

Males are supposed to be strong and yet they are supposed to be kind.  I’m supposed to be able to kill my fellow human being with one hand (defending . . . whatever) . . . while loving and embracing ‘them’ (my family, my ‘fellow human being’) with another.  I’m supposed to pick up someone’s guts with a grin and a smile.  I’m supposed to repress that I’m a human being.  I’m not allowed to cry unless I’m alone . . . and I’m never alone with ‘myself’; haven’t been in such a long time . . .

“Stuff the grief and put it behind you.”

“Stop feeling sad for yourself.”  (Self-pity? Aghast! Disallowed!  Won’t have anything to do with the thing . . . part of the reason we are broken into a ‘small child’ . . . we can feel sympathy for this ‘someone else’ who is inside of us – makes sense, no? (educated being looking at you with eyebrows quizzically raised).  Our own ‘therapist’ . . . he’s a joke sometimes, leaving ‘us’ alone . . . with ourselves..

“Cry and I’ll give you something to cry about!!!”  I’ve heard that one enough to last me the rest of my lifetime – I’d heard it enough by I guess about my third age to know: you don’t cry about ‘this thing’ (or that one; or any one) . . . but slaps hurt my face bad sometimes; that’s what you get for crying . . .

Society says it’s not normal not to cry.  So what? (a hard part of me is saying).  Screw them.  But I can’t cry . . . not yet, not again.  (Remembering what we went through in PR: we cried there – again and again and again.  Yeah; that’s right – about three times.  In fortynine years.)

A crying man is sitting on a bench at the public mall.

Watch the people going around him.

Replace that man with a crying girl.

Notice the difference.  See if someone stops . . .

 

I’d love to do a “play” – like one of those TV shows “Candid Camera” – from a social scientist and psychologist’s perspective, taking the numbers, analyzing the footage – people’s faces and things (grimaces and grins; that kind of stuff) – even (perhaps) ‘interrogating’ people afterward (around the corner in the mall) – to see how they feel; what they thought and things . . .

It would be strange.  But then again: I already know the answers . . . the man would get ignored; perhaps led away by someone in mall security . . . the girl would gain a ‘new best friend’ (if not a lot of them) . . . the guy would be kicked out in the parking lot . . . the girl might get the number of a therapist or a counselor . . .

The guy is sitting around shooting the stuff with his buds . . . mentions he was abused . . .

“Oh, I was one of the Sandusky kids” (perhaps and just as an example; I am not one of them) . . .

How are the other guys gonna feel?

Replace that situation with one of a sleep over and a party . . . just ‘girlfriends’ hanging out, doing make-up, talking stuff . . .

and one mentions what happened . . .

Would be an interesting set of situations to go through.  I know with myself and my ‘guy friends’ – well, no.  I won’t tell them about the sexual abusee (especially one; he is like MEAN and mocking; him and his brother) . . . you generally just get kicked in the butt; accused of things.  Like being queer, liking it, and do you want some right now? kinda statements . . .okay, we’re bi, so you’re half right . . . and no, not with you (the wanting to have sex kinda thing)…

The physical abuse situation (and mental/emotional one as well) is different.  Guys are sorta sympathetic (sometimes) – and may treat you “light” – but they still expect you to toughen up when there’s a chore to be done.  That’s part of where “my” being different comes in handy: able to “switch” to a redneck being, or a “guy” being at any time – the right personality (read “tool”) for the job . . . that’s part of what being DID (MPD multiple persons) is all about . . .

But it’s that difference that society seems to find useful – until they are ‘done’ with the tool – then dropped like a hot piece of metal – or locked away . . .

More and more we’ve been thinking of our lineage and ‘what was done why when and what’ – linking, trying to link ‘selves’ and personalities together . . . another difference that makes us undesirable by some .  .  .

whutever . . .

I’m done.

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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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