So, this site should probably be called: did monthly, instead of did daily, cuz I have huge gaping holes in my blogs. The last blog I wrote, about kissing my ass? Elizabeth wrote that, not I. That is why it sounded like a whiny teenager. Cuz Elizabeth is 16, and angry, and sad. As am I. She is my alter/part/personality that holds some memories and the feelings associated with those memories. I’ve got a lot of grieving to do, kids. A lot. Apparently, that is part of the DID healing process. Grief work. Yuk. But, if I want to have some semblance of peace and happiness, I gotta grieve. Not looking forward to that day. Not yet. Cuz I’m not quite there, yet. I’ve got a long way to go, apparently.
So, the morning of 12/31/16, I fell like a mother in my bathroom. I fell asleep on the toilet, then took a header into the door, the bowl, and my slate floor. From a TBI perspective, I’m okay. Except for my ataxia or aphasia, whichever that is when you can’t pull up the names of things, frustrating is what I call it. Wasn’t allowed to drive. I come from Detroit- you must have a car, or you perish. So, nice blesson (blessing + lesson). My head finally stopped hurting everyday about a week ago. Headaches. Woof. I woke up 1/1/17, and my head felt like a soccer ball that had been used in The World Cup. The bitch? I was stone, cold sober. It’s suspect af, but I just celebrated 8 and a half years drink and unprescribed drugs free. And I don’t take narcotics. I have an appointment with the pain clinic on Friday, but I’m on a benzo. I tried to wean myself off like my shrink said, but I kept having Horrific nightmares about The Roaches. It was awful. I think I was hollering in my sleep. I hate that. I don’t mean to, but what can I do?
My therapist has been on vacation all month. So, I’ve been emailing, texting, phone calls to keep all my shit together. Hasn’t been easy. Apparently, the buried rage I/we feel towards at my folks-who are fucking saints-for abandoning me and basically appointing the Roaches as my babysitters, is going to be a life long process of unfolding. I feel like shit about it. Talk about mixed emotions. Fuck. Lower than a snake’s nuts, I tell ya.
Anyways, my therapist tells me that because I have a part system, I now have to live Life by Committee. I have/must have a morning meeting with my parts. I got way far away from doing that. Because I was just going through way too much life. I couldn’t even walk or think, let alone talk to them. I was so enraged for so long, at living with DID, having parts. So much rage and shame. My last therapist didn’t really encourage acceptance and foster a positive relationship with my system. Really shame based and judgmental. But, we know that by the way she axed me out of her practice. Betrayal. Fucking sucks. But, can’t have the good without the bad. If she didn’t force me out to force my hand, I wouldn’t have my current therapist. Who teaches me that it is not my fault, I am not bad, it happened To me, not Because of me. It was not my fault. Wasn’t my parents fault. Was their fault.
But, every morning, and this is my process, other people have other ways, I get out the notebook, and I write good morning. Then I hear however many voices- different voices, different genders, different ages, answer. And I do a role call, most pressing issue of ours first. Address it, and then go down the list. This can take anywhere from 5 minutes, to 45 minutes. With breaks, of course. But, this is how I have to live my life. Checking in all throughout the day to make sure everyone is okay and no one is going to act out. Cuz that shit is no bueno. So, then I have to do my recovery readings and stuff of that nature, which, sometime, I save till later. Pray and meditate too. Some people get up and run/ walk 2 miles, I jog in my head. Not because I like living there, cuz I don’t, but because I have to make sure all the “kids” are alright, otherwise who knows what could happen that day.
And then throughout the day, I have to check in. If I start to have some random, odd feeling that I don’t understand where it came from or it came on out of nowhere, I have to sit down, and ask who is feeling this, what is going on, how can we deal this. A common theme in DID recovery is we have to Reparent ourselves. Because we never got authentic, basic parenting needs met. Don’t get me wrong- I had food, clothing, shelter, an education, a married couple, loving family, but in-between was a living hell. School was hell too. I was the poor kid at a wealthy, private school. I was a bully’s wet dream. Then I was alone most of the day, because my parents worked (Thank God they had jobs, and didn’t drink, or gamble, or whatever, they are just mentally ill. Depression/PTSD and Bipolar/Anxiety on the other side) and then I’d go to the Roaches, come home fucking exhausted, eat dinner, sleep. Then I’d wake up at about ten pm and help my mom with costumes-she was a drama teacher on steroids, amazing. Untouchable. Iconic. That was how I got to see my mom. I stay up till about 12;30-2, fall back asleep, wake up at 5:50 and hell would begin again.
So, today? All is well. It is Sunday. A major trigger day for me this time of year, especially between 3-6. So, I take precautions. You know, be kind to myself. Reparent. Which I have no idea how to do. But I am learning. We are all learning. Life is a tough school. Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed, but it’s automatic. I get up. I wake up, and I go. Maybe not really far somedays- hell, yesterday I left my house once for 15 minutes. Today is glorious and the New Moon. So, there’s smudging to be done. So, yeah.
Be kind to each other. Easy to say, hard to do. I can’t even be kind to myself. But I keep trying.