“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 . . .