Fish In A Pond

Fish In A Pond

Last night, after my wife and I had gotten done making love, I held her and she held me. I could feel the little ones rising – feeding off that comfort and warmth.  Coming to the surface and feeling her love . . . I softly laughed, feeling ‘them’ move inside me. She learned: this is a sign there’s something up; a deep inward chuckle as I learn new things.

It’s like fish in a pond,” I said, snuggling closer, drawing her tight to me. I had my face planted between her breasts, arms wrapped tight, nothing sexual.  I could ‘feel’ “13” (a personality of ‘mine’) moving to take over.

What do you mean?” she tenderly asked, stroking my hair back over my head.

‘I’ nuzzled; I had to let go soon, giving another his turn. I, too, was a fish.  Like them – gently rising to embrace her, feel her skin, then sinking under.  I couldn’t get enough but I had to yield – her warmth warmed ‘us’ within. I could feel myself beginning to sink back into “The Crowd”.*

Feeding,” I explained, feeling her growing larger and smaller again, though it was I – as I was changing from an ‘adult’ to a little kid . . . varying in size and age from 5 to 11, and then there was “13”. He had been one of the ones involved in making love to her; that, and Little Mikie and me, the adult being. “They’re coming to the ‘top’ and holding you, feeding’ off your love, feeling you – and loving you.”  It was a strange sensation; not uncomfortable exactly . . . that rising and falling of my alternate personalities . . . “They’re like fish in a pond.  Rising to the surface . . .”

One of my kids – I think it was Little Michael, tipped our head and gave her a firm hard kiss on the cheek. My arms tightened, I could feel them, but it was “13”.  He was coming up for a dip.  I held her – only it was “13”, furiously loving her, or at least trying to give it his best.

You know what this means, don’t you?” I could barely whisper.  It was coming from the depths, and my voice reflected the distance as I sank down with the rest, another one coming up to replace me.  It was the Marine and I was surprised.  He’s never been ‘up’ before; not like this.

What?” she asked.

It means that they are beginning to trust you,” I said, pulling the body’s vocal cord strings. It was like trying to pluck a tenuous harp with ghost hands . . . “I think that’s a good thing.”

Yes,”, she said, drawing me closer. And we huddled with her, including the Marine. ‘I’ was surprised to ‘see’ him go sliding by . . . then ‘he’ came up and hugged her.  “I think so, too.”  She pressed my head to her breast.

I think we are making progress; albeit of a clumsy sort, my wife and I. It’s a long issue of trust and promise on both sides . . . but I feel it has been a step forward.

Especially when she said:  I love ya’ll” like a true Southerner – not forced, nor realizing what she’s said, using ‘plural’.

and we snuggled against her chest.   I could feel ‘them’ like fish in a pond, rising to bask in the light of our love, hers and my own . . . and theirs . . .

and I’ve realized: Sometimes I gotta get out of the way and ‘let them’ have this comfort and joy.  As they fed I felt the happiness and joy that comes from an abused child whose been long neglected – feeling loved and accepted . . . starting with me and all the rest . . .

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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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