WTF is a “Map”, over?

This part of Sheila's system, or sub-system, would include myself and how all the parts of only Sheila are organized.
This part of Sheila’s system, or sub-system, would include myself and how all the parts of only Sheila are organized.
More of Sheila's system.  This time, the map shows the parts of Sheila, my part that has her own sub system, her parts are behind me.
More of Sheila’s system. This time, the map shows the parts of Sheila, my part that has her own sub system, her parts are behind me.
TO the left, to the left- thank you, Beyonce...We are irreplaceable.
TO the left, to the left- thank you, Beyonce…We are irreplaceable.
More of Sheila's system.  This time to the far left.
More of Sheila’s system. This time to the far left.

Yeah, um, so I did a map of Sheila’s system last week and dragged it into my therapist.  With DID, you need to do regular System maps, or “Mapping” (Upgrading), so you know who is closer to you and who is farther away and who knows whom, and who doesn’t want to be known, all the social ramifications of throwing a party, or having a group of friends, except they are all in your head, and then you put them on paper.  Breathe. This is just my life.  My whole entire life.  I had 79 parts.  Including parts that had parts that had parts.  Parts, like Sheila, who have systems, or sub systems of their own.

It’s confusing, I know.  Try living with it.  Or, having a serious relationship with DID.  I just lost a friend of 20+ years because she wanted my, “bits”  (wrong), to introduce themselves to her when I switched so she would know with whom she was discoursing.  Um, yeah.  Sorry.  My system doesn’t even do that for me, Queenie.  So, yet another relationship bites the proverbial dust.

Sheila is a part of me that formed when I was 15.  See, I fell in love, first love, real love for the first time, ever and since.  I loved Dave, but that was all lies. I’ll get to my relationship with Dave.  David Dean Smith, the notorious AIDS Killer.  Which is horseshit.  It’s HIV, people.  No one dies from AIDS anymore.  It known as HIV Type IV in research now, for chrissakes!  The only people who die from AIDS, are the ones that don’t know and don’t seek treatment for their HIV.  And they die from Pneumonia, Cancer, etc.  just like other people do, just all at once.  So, yeah, I was engaged to Dave.  Twice.  Half my system loved him and the other half of my system didn’t trust him as far as they could throw him.  Anyways, having DID and HIV and being a big girl, yeah, the likelihood that I’ll ever get some again?   Oh yeah, and I’ve been away from drinking for 6+ years, so, real crowd pleaser.  Reeeeeeaaaall crowd pleaser.  So, we can thank Dave for the HIV and the Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA) and subsequent abuse from my babysitters for the DID.  I’m fucked, really.  I don’t even know why I get out of bed some mornings.  WTF do I have to get up for?  Oh yeah!  To heal and get this website off the ground and heal and give some other people some fucking hope.  Cuz that hope?  She is one, cruel bitch.

But yeah.  Sheila formed when I was fifteen and I met the love of my life.  Never been in a healthy or better relationship since.  All steadily downhill.  For reals.  So, yeah.  He’s gone, and happy (I HOPE- there’s that bitch again) and slugging through life like the rest of us sorry basterdz.  And then there’s me.

Good news?  Down to 7 parts.  Was Diagnosed in August of 2008.  One of those parts being Sheila- who has her own system/subsystem- whose system is above.  So, I have busted my ass to become whole.  Integration is what I am aiming for.  Even if we can at least all play nice, that’d be great.  Sheila and one of her parts (think of it like on, I got a leaf!!!!  Well, I got a part of a part) are trying to give me their feelings regarding my first love.  See, your parts were invented/created to protect you.  I was a messed up kid and this lovely, wonderful, sweet, amazing boy fell head over heels for me.  I couldn’t lie or say what I didn’t know…I just knew something was very wrong with me, and he was very right and deserved to be happy.  So, I cut him loose.  Fucking kills me, I’m shoulda-ing all over myself.  But, he deserved a shot with a whole woman.  Not a broken young girl.  I kick myself for playing God and not giving him a fair choice, but wtf are you gonna do?  I loved him, so I set him free.  Now, it sucks to be me and I get all moody with many parts and I can’t even have a decent and close friendship.

Wah, fucking, wah.  Shut my yap.  I know.  It’s just where I’m at today.  I’m miserable and lonely and embarrassed to walk outside because I’m two bills and change, and I feel like everyone can see through me.  I feel like a fraud, so I hide.  But with Parts works and Mapping, I can’t hide from myself.  Not anymore.

I left Facebook because I needed to heal and I know the general populus does not believe, understand, or even accept DID, because very few people can wrap their heads around the concept of DID, let alone grasp why DID exists in their loved one.  Sorry Marty, but I went there.

I’ll say it to the day I integrate or the day I die, whichever comes first- I was a little kid (4 years old to 8 years of age) watching, seeing, feeling, smelling and experiencing HORRIFIC grown up things that even grown ups would find repugnant.  And I was four.  I’m wickedly creative and insanely intelligent, so I created Parts, parts of me designed to hold and experience the traumas I was enduring because I was too little.  I know it’s hard to understand.  I know no one wants to talk about it.  I know no one wants to believe DID is real.

Everyone with DID is different.  Everyone with DID is also remarkably the same.  Our systems are all different, and all the same.

Chew on that Koan, and I’ll get back to you…



H.O.P.E. (Hiding Our Pain Everyday)

Yeah, I realized I have no hope.  There is a song on now-Losing Hope, by Jack Johnson.  I lost my only friend, my best friend, a long time ago.  I set him free.  Because I knew I was really sick, with the DID, you know?  I knew he wanted way more than I could provide emotionally, physically and mentally.  I loved him, more than any other person, aside of family, naturally, and I wanted him to be happy, so I let him go.  Pushed him away.  That was when I was 18.  Took me till age 25 to not think or wonder about him every day.  Then, it took me getting sober and growing up, and getting some integration under my belt to apologize.  See, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness, than for permission.  Learned that one today.

I also realized I have a chest CT no one has called me about.  So, unless they’re freaks, I should be okay.  *Sighs major sigh of relief*  But, my god daughter and her boyfriend came up for a visit yesterday and today.  We went on a 7-11 adventure, as yesterday was: you can fill it, you call it, Slurpee day.  Where I live, there are no 7-11’s.  So we had to go all the way to the lake shore.  I realized last night, after a restless and night terror filled sleep, I have no real hope.

I unplugged from the ole Facebook, because I needed to pursue my dreams, without constant scrutiny or consternation by people who do not pay my bills, et al.  I also needed to heal.  Because, to me, Hope is a cruel mistress.  To me, today, Hope stands for Hiding Our Pain Everyday.

My god daughter has DID as well.  Our systems/parts/alters, whatever are very different from each other.  This is the case with all DID people.  Depends on your level and duration and endurance of trauma, along with severity of trauma, length of trauma, frequency of trauma, how creative you are, how high your intelligence is, and how old you were when the trauma(s) occurred.  My trauma lasted from 4-8.  Then I engaged in repetition compulsion.  You know?  Rinse, lather, repeat, forget to rinse again and never get out of the shower? (Thanks Bill Engvall)  You know, never get help for the trauma, and unconsciously repeat it, thinking you can change the outcome, when all you (Me) did was repeat an even greater trauma, thereby causing an even greater shit storm.  Yeah, that was me.  I had enough.

“These are not my bad acts; these are not my bad deeds.  Keeping someone else secrets is the lowest paying job in the world”~Ana, psych RN.  I don’t know where she got it from, but I moved a lot of blame from me, thinking the trauma and abuse was my fault, (I was fucking four to eight years of age..what could I have possibly done?  And when you come to grips with that?  Holeee Fuck, there’s a grappler) and putting it on the abusers.   That’s a feat of daring right there.

So, today, I am recommitting to my cleaning out my closet and porch and keeping it very clean.  But, I am also going on the DL.  I need to heal.  I have lost a lot of people.  All my girlfriends have boyfriends- which is great!  Really!  It’s fan fucking tastic, because my girlfriends are amazing women and deserve a happy ending.

But you know what?

So do I.

So, conversely?  I am losing H.O.P.E.

Have a good Sunday.