I wish I could say “Life has been been busy” – which wouldn’t quite be a lie – but the fact is I’ve had some issues, and life is just one.
We’ve had some offers from four folks to buy our copyright . . . uh, I mean MY copyright to MY book “The Boy”. I’m taking a clue from FaithAllen on her blog; refer to MYself as a singular pronoun. I have considered that for a while. The use of a plural pronoun is a “feeding the bad wolf” kind of thing perhaps. But it definitely mucks with my thinking and writing style. A little less scattered, perhaps; but if so, that’s not because “I” am not scattered. It’s because some of ‘me’ is missing. Voices are ‘shut up’ and ‘things’ (meaning personalities buried, muted, ‘put away’). I don’t know if that’s a good sort of thing.
Being DID means a lot of things. It means occasionally strange thoughts and urges. It means I might have a startled sudden flash or thought that intrudes – comes out of nowhere – urging me on to ‘do something’. Sometimes those things are bad; dangerous things as well.
I can’t lie. Some of my ‘parts’ are insane. Some of them are killers. Other ‘parts’ are psychotic in their own way. “WE” as a whole keep them locked up and locked away. It was the way we were trained. You can blame the US Army, Military, parents, and the Marines – and an abusive past – for that sort of thing. A little bit of a lot, and a lot of some more makes for a surviving child – no matter what the ‘war’. (sighing)
Here’s the thing (because it’s happened). Imagine you are making dinner with your spouse; you love them – they are your stable, your home to come home to (never mind that you stay at home all the time anyway – being disabled, I know I tend to). She (or he) is the anchor for your mind and life.
And suddenly you want to stab her. Suddenly and out of the blue, the ‘impulse’ (just a hint of it) – along with the thought occurs.
And yet – it’s a terrifying, horrible thought and WE don’t like it at all!
It originates in one of our ‘original’ beings – or so I thought. It appears the thought is controlled by several others.
But never fear: we would never do anything like that to our wife. We love her and cherish her – but this is a DID life. “WE” all have made a vow (a long long time ago) never to do anything to intentionally hurt this woman.EVER. And it’s a promise we must hold . . . because we made it to ourselves, and we made it to her as well. Forever and all the time: that’s how our promises stand (which is why it’s rare to get one).
But we go through our life (lives?) all the time like this; always have to some degree, ever since (and this is a ‘part’ of me thinking this) – I turned “13” – meaning a personality and age (so to speak).
That’s also the reason it’s been so hard for me to write about certain things.
For instance, we owe our wife some stories for some cigarettes she had given us (we are trading 2 short stories from MY life to MY wife . . . LOL, singular is hard – per pack of cigarettes). Not really an even trade.
And then we came to the story when we (and here I am literally having to force myself very hard to write) left the ‘hood – the neighborhood “I” (meaning one of my host personalities, my inner ‘kid’). Now that’s a funny thing, because there’s really nothing ‘bad’ (meaning I didn’t get beaten or sexually molested or betrayed by the one doing it this time) – but some bad things went on in the neighborhood.
And here’s the thing: You say “your childhood” – and I see myself ages five through 10 (or 11-1/2 or so – when we left ‘the hood’) – nothing else. Before came “toddlerhood” if nothing else. After came . . . something else.
We figure our inner child ‘died’. We KNOW he did – in a way. The change – so soon after the things in the neighborhood . . . things going terribly wrong – the ‘betrayal’ (in a way) of our friend; the shipping out so soon – taking this child who had been raised in a backwoods poor neighborhood somewhere there in the deep “Deep South” (right off of Tobacco Road) – and thrusting him into an apartment neighborhood overseas . . . moving him around . . .
He died. Our inner ‘child’ just gave up – threw his hands (and soul) up to the heavens and died.
And then we ‘buried’ him . . .
forever and ever my friend (some soft grieving)
and now he’s ‘come alive’. Again. (Not the first time in my life I’ve had to go through this kind of thing – but everything’s different, each and every time.)
But here’s the thing: “someone” had to exist; “someone” had to “take over” inside.
And ‘we’ did. To some degree. Trying to build a ‘new one’ – a new host – while (at the same time) getting along – surviving – in our own life overseas with the threat of nuclear bombs hanging over us; under the gun all the time (and sometimes quite literally – I mean that really. You’ve seen kids under guns. Just not American ones.)
And the discipline changes; the environment – did you know a military base overseas is like living in an aquarium – two environments at a time? One: the base you are living on. Two: the country you are in. And THREE (and here’s the real kicker): the family (and an abusive, hatefilled one) that you cannot escape. You have to develop a ‘persona’ or PERSONALITY for each one – and there IS no escape. You are not flying back home, there’s no one to talk to – you are quite alone. Having to totally rely on your own resources.
And you are yet but a young, backwoods child suddenly thrust into this Brave New World of the Cold Cold War with the East Germans a country drive from the border . . . the Army HAS you in it”s grip – in everything . . . nothing remains the same, is the same; always changing, always moving around . . .
It’s bound to do something to you.
We’re still figuring it out sometimes.