Question:
I have been reading at this ng for several weeks, maybe a month, well, I don’t know exactly. I seem to get mixed up about time. For awhile I thought that was a problem I had with some minutes, then I realized that hours were lost, then I was forced to see that I’ve even lost track of days, weeks… a couple of times I’ve ended up living somewhere and working a job in that town before I understood that I was there. And I just sort of rationalized all of that stuff for a long time. Then, after a bizarre series of events, I ended up in th*r*py and got this d.i.d. dx. A good friend told me about this ng. I’m sorry. I hope I remember all the stuff I’m supposed to splat and everthing. I’m trying to learn. I hope I don’t make too many mistakes. Please tell me if I do. I have wanted to participate in the discussion for awhile, but it’s been difficult for me to figure out how to post anon. I hope that I’ve got it down now. I’ll be flipped out if I see me actual name posted on the list. I think my job might be at risk if anybody ever figured this out about me. My job might be at risk anyway because I sometimes have trouble behaving according to my professional role. But my t keeps working with me about holding onto my position. The most recent thing in the discussion that I have wanted to respond to has been the stuff on the hospital. I had a week in one. I couldn’t believe how bad it was. I went with a lot of optimism. My t and my friend encouraged me. They said that if I went when I wasn’t in crisis, and I wasn’t at the time, that I might be able to set goals for myself and learn something about myself and how to handle stuff. But, no, no, no!!! My t and my friend agree with me, too. The place, supposedly the best in the country, sucks. And my shr*nk was the head honcho guy, super published, super respected. I have all kinds of bad names for him. I won’t list any of them, even his real name, here. But he was very bad. For example: he wanted me to take meds. I didn’t. He looked me in the eye and said, "You are very confused. You came in here confused and every time I look at you I can see that you are confused." So, I closed my eyes and told him what he was wearing, in great detail — every color of every garment, practically every stitch. Then I opened my eyes and said, "So, if I’m so confused, how have I accomplished the things I’ve accomplished?" "That’s not what we’re talking about now," he said. Also, when I got there, they took my vitamins away and wouldn’t let me take them. I had to threaten to file a grievance and get my t to make numerous phone calls before they would allow me to partake of the toxic vitamin C and the necessary iron and B12 tablets for my vegan diet. Then, because of the tussle over the vitamins, they wouldn’t let me go outside for 4 days. My dog came to visit me, and she’s one of the rare things that help me stay balanced or stable or present or grounded or whatever the lingo of the day may be, and they wouldn’t let me see her. Finally, I left in protest with some other women when we were identified by someone who was way too disoriented and v*ol*nt to have been in the unit in the first place, as being "bad girls" and making her uncomfortable. She threatened us and none of the "m*ntal health workers," a bunch of uneducated, untrained punks, all of whom were younger than my son, nor the professional staff did anything to protect us or even acknowledge that something wrong happened. So, the whole group checked out. My t was coming to see me the day I checked out, so he said he would give me a ride home. So, dig this, the big guy, my shr*nk, locked my t in the ward with us for about an hour, making him wait to get talked to. Then the big guy told my t that he was breaking boundaries and was bad for me. So my t told the big guy that he (my t) believed me about the incident and that he didn’t want to break my trust. He said it would be worse if he didn’t give me the ride than if he did. So we left. Finally. And I do trust my t, a lot. In the car on the way home, my t said this very funny line about the big guy: "He wanted to be alpha dog, but I’m not in his pack." Otherwise, I found the programs at the hsptl to be condescending on an intellectual level and way too general on emotional levels. The ps*ch**trsts (how am I supposed to write that?) were all arrogant, authoritarian pill pushers. Among the mental health workers there were several young, military model men. And they would do rounds — like looking in our bedrooms every 1/2 hr. through the night. That flipped me out big time. I mean, most of us, all of us but one, on the ward were women. We were all d.i.d. And doesn’t that mean that we shouldn’t be forced to "cope" w/such an arrangement? I thought I was going someplace to feel safe while I worked on some of my stuff. But no. I felt less safe there than I do in my apartment with a phone line and email to my t and some good friends. But a good thing for me on the ward was mtg others like me. Others who knew about stuff that I described from in my head. People who could make jokes when I dissed away hours in the shower — and sometimes they would come and get me so I could watch a movie with them or play ping pong. We played this great ping pong game. It goes like this: It’s two handed ping pong and it’s doubles. Sometimes we play off the wall instead of off the table. I mean we’re playing off the table, then someone shouts, "Off the wall" and we have to volley off the wall for a round. Sometimes we play w/out the table. Same deal — someone shouts, "No table" then we just volley in the air. The goal is not to rack up points, but to keep the ball going. And then, the winner is the one who doesn’t sw*tch, or anyway, the last one to switch. It was a lot of fun. We played every night. Staff expressed irritation, but we ignored them. Okay, I think I may have rambled on way too long for my first post, but I’ve been wanting to talk for a very long time. I am glad and relieved to have found this ng. Many of you say things that I understand, that move me, and that make me realize that I’m not a lone Wacky Bobo. Next time I post, I’ll tell you about the Wacky Bobo club and game that my pals from the ward and my friend who turned me on to this ng have developed. Meanwhile, thank you for being there. Sometimes just reading what you have to say is the thing that gets me through the night. Lately, the nights have been rough. And I have been rough on myself. Hard habits to break, but I’m trying. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Hi trill, Welcome! I’m glad that you found this ng, and hope that you’ll find it as helpful as I have. I certainly agree with you about hospitals. (Your post jolted me out of the cocoon I have made for myself lately). I had an experience in a "fine, private psychiatric hospital" that traumatized me badly. The psychiatrist that was treating me was also the p-doc that I used out-patient. I was hospitalized three times in a year for depression, and I think that he felt humiliated that he, the Medical Director, could not treat me properly and that I had to be hospitalized that many times. His behavior was fine the first 2 times I was admitted. By the 3rd time, his attitude changed considerably. He would insult me in front of the other patient’s and staff. He convinced my outside T to terminate with me because "he wasn’t helping me". It was a nightmare for almost 3 weeks. It got to a point that whenever I would see him, I would actually hide because he would humiliate me in front of everyone. When I finally got out of the hospital, I swore off Therapy, p-docs, therapists "forever". It was OK for about 6 months, then the nightmares that I was having every night about the hospital, became nightmares about the abuse that had happened to me in childhood. I had no recollection of it until then. I finally found another p-doc and wrote to my old T. He called and apologized for being weak enough to listen to the "big guns". So, I was able to go back to therapy with someone that I felt comfortable with. It’s been a difficult 8 years. I was a middle-aged woman and suddenly I started to remember that my childhood was a complete farce that I had made up. The lost time, the flashbacks were horrific. It was so ingrained in me to be silent (without knowing why), that I thought that everyone had "voices inside" that talked to them. I can empathize with you trill. I hope that you will post often. Nahanton
Response:
Hi trill, welcome to this group. Your post was what I needed to read today…thanks for sharing such detail and emotion with us. I am happy you are here and hopw the ng can help you and benefit in return. Looking forward to chatting with you. Later, as I am in the midst of some serious sh*t, anxiety, PTSD stuff…sigh. one foot in front of the other, mare
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – I have been reading at this ng for several weeks, maybe a month, well, I don’t know exactly. I seem to get mixed up about time. For awhile I thought that was a problem I had with some minutes, then I realized that hours were lost, then I was forced to see that I’ve even lost track of days, weeks… a couple of times I’ve ended up living somewhere and working a job in that town before I understood that I was there. And I just sort of rationalized all of that stuff for a long time. Then, after a bizarre series of events, I ended up in th*r*py and got this d.i.d. dx. A good friend told me about this ng. I’m sorry. I hope I remember all the stuff I’m supposed to splat and everthing. I’m trying to learn. I hope I don’t make too many mistakes. Please tell me if I do. I have wanted to participate in the discussion for awhile, but it’s been difficult for me to figure out how to post anon. I hope that I’ve got it down now. I’ll be flipped out if I see me actual name posted on the list. I think my job might be at risk if anybody ever figured this out about me. My job might be at risk anyway because I sometimes have trouble behaving according to my professional role. But my t keeps working with me about holding onto my position. The most recent thing in the discussion that I have wanted to respond to has been the stuff on the hospital. I had a week in one. I couldn’t believe how bad it was. I went with a lot of optimism. My t and my friend encouraged me. They said that if I went when I wasn’t in crisis, and I wasn’t at the time, that I might be able to set goals for myself and learn something about myself and how to handle stuff. But, no, no, no!!! My t and my friend agree with me, too. The place, supposedly the best in the country, sucks. And my shr*nk was the head honcho guy, super published, super respected. I have all kinds of bad names for him. I won’t list any of them, even his real name, here. But he was very bad. For example: he wanted me to take meds. I didn’t. He looked me in the eye and said, "You are very confused. You came in here confused and every time I look at you I can see that you are confused." So, I closed my eyes and told him what he was wearing, in great detail — every color of every garment, practically every stitch. Then I opened my eyes and said, "So, if I’m so confused, how have I accomplished the things I’ve accomplished?" "That’s not what we’re talking about now," he said. Also, when I got there, they took my vitamins away and wouldn’t let me take them. I had to threaten to file a grievance and get my t to make numerous phone calls before they would allow me to partake of the toxic vitamin C and the necessary iron and B12 tablets for my vegan diet. Then, because of the tussle over the vitamins, they wouldn’t let me go outside for 4 days. My dog came to visit me, and she’s one of the rare things that help me stay balanced or stable or present or grounded or whatever the lingo of the day may be, and they wouldn’t let me see her. Finally, I left in protest with some other women when we were identified by someone who was way too disoriented and v*ol*nt to have been in the unit in the first place, as being "bad girls" and making her uncomfortable. She threatened us and none of the "m*ntal health workers," a bunch of uneducated, untrained punks, all of whom were younger than my son, nor the professional staff did anything to protect us or even acknowledge that something wrong happened. So, the whole group checked out. My t was coming to see me the day I checked out, so he said he would give me a ride home. So, dig this, the big guy, my shr*nk, locked my t in the ward with us for about an hour, making him wait to get talked to. Then the big guy told my t that he was breaking boundaries and was bad for me. So my t told the big guy that he (my t) believed me about the incident and that he didn’t want to break my trust. He said it would be worse if he didn’t give me the ride than if he did. So we left. Finally. And I do trust my t, a lot. In the car on the way home, my t said this very funny line about the big guy: "He wanted to be alpha dog, but I’m not in his pack." Otherwise, I found the programs at the hsptl to be condescending on an intellectual level and way too general on emotional levels. The ps*ch**trsts (how am I supposed to write that?) were all arrogant, authoritarian pill pushers. Among the mental health workers there were several young, military model men. And they would do rounds — like looking in our bedrooms every 1/2 hr. through the night. That flipped me out big time. I mean, most of us, all of us but one, on the ward were women. We were all d.i.d. And doesn’t that mean that we shouldn’t be forced to "cope" w/such an arrangement? I thought I was going someplace to feel safe while I worked on some of my stuff. But no. I felt less safe there than I do in my apartment with a phone line and email to my t and some good friends. But a good thing for me on the ward was mtg others like me. Others who knew about stuff that I described from in my head. People who could make jokes when I dissed away hours in the shower — and sometimes they would come and get me so I could watch a movie with them or play ping pong. We played this great ping pong game. It goes like this: It’s two handed ping pong and it’s doubles. Sometimes we play off the wall instead of off the table. I mean we’re playing off the table, then someone shouts, "Off the wall" and we have to volley off the wall for a round. Sometimes we play w/out the table. Same deal — someone shouts, "No table" then we just volley in the air. The goal is not to rack up points, but to keep the ball going. And then, the winner is the one who doesn’t sw*tch, or anyway, the last one to switch. It was a lot of fun. We played every night. Staff expressed irritation, but we ignored them. Okay, I think I may have rambled on way too long for my first post, but I’ve been wanting to talk for a very long time. I am glad and relieved to have found this ng. Many of you say things that I understand, that move me, and that make me realize that I’m not a lone Wacky Bobo. Next time I post, I’ll tell you about the Wacky Bobo club and game that my pals from the ward and my friend who turned me on to this ng have developed. Meanwhile, thank you for being there. Sometimes just reading what you have to say is the thing that gets me through the night. Lately, the nights have been rough. And I have been rough on myself. Hard habits to break, but I’m trying. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Trill Welcome to the group, I am sure you will like it here. I read about your story from the hospital and I have to tell you places like that scare the living daylight out of me. I know I have to get myself a T very soon, My husband got a letter from a Doctor that said I was in great need of some proffesional help. But it is so good and safe here at home, just sitting here at the puter and read and write. Its a good day for me today ;o) Bluebell
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – I have been reading at this ng for several weeks, maybe a month, well, I don’t know exactly. I seem to get mixed up about time. For awhile I thought that was a problem I had with some minutes, then I realized that hours were lost, then I was forced to see that I’ve even lost track of days, weeks… a couple of times I’ve ended up living somewhere and working a job in that town before I understood that I was there. And I just sort of rationalized all of that stuff for a long time. Then, after a bizarre series of events, I ended up in th*r*py and got this d.i.d. dx. A good friend told me about this ng. I’m sorry. I hope I remember all the stuff I’m supposed to splat and everthing. I’m trying to learn. I hope I don’t make too many mistakes. Please tell me if I do. I have wanted to participate in the discussion for awhile, but it’s been difficult for me to figure out how to post anon. I hope that I’ve got it down now. I’ll be flipped out if I see me actual name posted on the list. I think my job might be at risk if anybody ever figured this out about me. My job might be at risk anyway because I sometimes have trouble behaving according to my professional role. But my t keeps working with me about holding onto my position. The most recent thing in the discussion that I have wanted to respond to has been the stuff on the hospital. I had a week in one. I couldn’t believe how bad it was. I went with a lot of optimism. My t and my friend encouraged me. They said that if I went when I wasn’t in crisis, and I wasn’t at the time, that I might be able to set goals for myself and learn something about myself and how to handle stuff. But, no, no, no!!! My t and my friend agree with me, too. The place, supposedly the best in the country, sucks. And my shr*nk was the head honcho guy, super published, super respected. I have all kinds of bad names for him. I won’t list any of them, even his real name, here. But he was very bad. For example: he wanted me to take meds. I didn’t. He looked me in the eye and said, "You are very confused. You came in here confused and every time I look at you I can see that you are confused." So, I closed my eyes and told him what he was wearing, in great detail — every color of every garment, practically every stitch. Then I opened my eyes and said, "So, if I’m so confused, how have I accomplished the things I’ve accomplished?" "That’s not what we’re talking about now," he said. Also, when I got there, they took my vitamins away and wouldn’t let me take them. I had to threaten to file a grievance and get my t to make numerous phone calls before they would allow me to partake of the toxic vitamin C and the necessary iron and B12 tablets for my vegan diet. Then, because of the tussle over the vitamins, they wouldn’t let me go outside for 4 days. My dog came to visit me, and she’s one of the rare things that help me stay balanced or stable or present or grounded or whatever the lingo of the day may be, and they wouldn’t let me see her. Finally, I left in protest with some other women when we were identified by someone who was way too disoriented and v*ol*nt to have been in the unit in the first place, as being "bad girls" and making her uncomfortable. She threatened us and none of the "m*ntal health workers," a bunch of uneducated, untrained punks, all of whom were younger than my son, nor the professional staff did anything to protect us or even acknowledge that something wrong happened. So, the whole group checked out. My t was coming to see me the day I checked out, so he said he would give me a ride home. So, dig this, the big guy, my shr*nk, locked my t in the ward with us for about an hour, making him wait to get talked to. Then the big guy told my t that he was breaking boundaries and was bad for me. So my t told the big guy that he (my t) believed me about the incident and that he didn’t want to break my trust. He said it would be worse if he didn’t give me the ride than if he did. So we left. Finally. And I do trust my t, a lot. In the car on the way home, my t said this very funny line about the big guy: "He wanted to be alpha dog, but I’m not in his pack." Otherwise, I found the programs at the hsptl to be condescending on an intellectual level and way too general on emotional levels. The ps*ch**trsts (how am I supposed to write that?) were all arrogant, authoritarian pill pushers. Among the mental health workers there were several young, military model men. And they would do rounds — like looking in our bedrooms every 1/2 hr. through the night. That flipped me out big time. I mean, most of us, all of us but one, on the ward were women. We were all d.i.d. And doesn’t that mean that we shouldn’t be forced to "cope" w/such an arrangement? I thought I was going someplace to feel safe while I worked on some of my stuff. But no. I felt less safe there than I do in my apartment with a phone line and email to my t and some good friends. But a good thing for me on the ward was mtg others like me. Others who knew about stuff that I described from in my head. People who could make jokes when I dissed away hours in the shower — and sometimes they would come and get me so I could watch a movie with them or play ping pong. We played this great ping pong game. It goes like this: It’s two handed ping pong and it’s doubles. Sometimes we play off the wall instead of off the table. I mean we’re playing off the table, then someone shouts, "Off the wall" and we have to volley off the wall for a round. Sometimes we play w/out the table. Same deal — someone shouts, "No table" then we just volley in the air. The goal is not to rack up points, but to keep the ball going. And then, the winner is the one who doesn’t sw*tch, or anyway, the last one to switch. It was a lot of fun. We played every night. Staff expressed irritation, but we ignored them. Okay, I think I may have rambled on way too long for my first post, but I’ve been wanting to talk for a very long time. I am glad and relieved to have found this ng. Many of you say things that I understand, that move me, and that make me realize that I’m not a lone Wacky Bobo. Next time I post, I’ll tell you about the Wacky Bobo club and game that my pals from the ward and my friend who turned me on to this ng have developed. Meanwhile, thank you for being there. Sometimes just reading what you have to say is the thing that gets me through the night. Lately, the nights have been rough. And I have been rough on myself. Hard habits to break, but I’m trying. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Wow, Nahanton, we have some stuff in common. Close in age, and my ’stuff’ started to come back to me after a hospitalization for surgery after i was very ill for weeks. Hospitalmares, used to get all tangled up with the old childhood stuff. THen everything was so bad that I needed help. I have also had some difficulties with ts who didn’t know what to do with me. /That really makes things worse, doesn’t it? Glad to meet you, trill. Welcome to asd. Jane – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Hi trill, Welcome! I’m glad that you found this ng, and hope that you’ll find it as helpful as I have. I certainly agree with you about hospitals. (Your post jolted me out of the cocoon I have made for myself lately). I had an experience in a "fine, private psychiatric hospital" that traumatized me badly. The psychiatrist that was treating me was also the p-doc that I used out-patient. I was hospitalized three times in a year for depression, and I think that he felt humiliated that he, the Medical Director, could not treat me properly and that I had to be hospitalized that many times. His behavior was fine the first 2 times I was admitted. By the 3rd time, his attitude changed considerably. He would insult me in front of the other patient’s and staff. He convinced my outside T to terminate with me because "he wasn’t helping me". It was a nightmare for almost 3 weeks. It got to a point that whenever I would see him, I would actually hide because he would humiliate me in front of everyone. When I finally got out of the hospital, I swore off Therapy, p-docs, therapists "forever". It was OK for about 6 months, then the nightmares that I was having every night about the hospital, became nightmares about the abuse that had happened to me in childhood. I had no recollection of it until then. I finally found another p-doc and wrote to my old T. He called and apologized for being weak enough to listen to the "big guns". So, I was able to go back to therapy with someone that I felt comfortable with. It’s been a difficult 8 years. I was a middle-aged woman and suddenly I started to remember that my childhood was a complete farce that I had made up. The lost time, the flashbacks were horrific. It was so ingrained in me to be silent (without knowing why), that I thought that everyone had "voices inside" that talked to them. I can empathize with you trill. I hope that you will post often. Nahanton
Before you buy.
Response:
Thanks to you for welcoming me. I am moving today and tomorrow. ugh. I’m very bad at moving but I have to do it a lot. I think that it is a symptom and I hope to lick it this time. At least I only have to move next door. The new apt. is bigger, and it has a fire place and ceiling fans and a fenced yard for my great dog. I keep spacing out and not staying on task. I’d rather hang out here than do what I have to do. Anyway, I’m going to take this break to send a couple of poems that I wrote. I already sent them to my friend, who is a member here. She said that I should send them to everyone. I hope you like them. But they are kind of sad, so I am going to spoiler now. 1 potato 2 potato 3 potato 4 Hey, what are we looking for? Will we get more? Get ready now, because here they come: Tada tada My poems: Therapy My heart is not broken, cracked open neatly into halves or even quarters. No splinters lie on the ground to be gathered carefully and fit into the cracks, tightly, sealed by glue, a bit rough around the edges, but fixed and functioning, finally, like when it was new. Mine is torn, ripped open raggedly to frayed edges and worn threads, shredded in some places. Some of the fabric is missing. Mine cannot be entirely repaired; will never function again like it did before it dared reveal itself to others — others who knew not the strength of their own defense; did not understand how tools can serve as weapons. So it is difficult for this one who is rare enough to be alone in taking care to try and darn the damaged cloth and save me. He uses a large needle. It is necessary to pierce the callused outer layers of a long embattled organ. Each puncture painful as the point pricks then pushes through, pulling behind it a heavy, sawing thread to gather the pieces back to their places and knot them together again. Where those pieces touch, the blood can flow from one part to the other, but not comfortably, not freely, impeded by the same knots that restore its route. I cry out and retreat from the pain. Again and again I choose death over this. This is just another torture. Yet he perseveres, insisting that I will be stronger, when the heart is finally mended, and more able to attend to the tasks of Tikkun Olem, such as I have assigned to myself when his work is done. Eventually, he says, the knots will dissolve because the heart will grow itself again: a different heart than what was born, but, still, a heart that beats. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, waiting for the next stitch. (c)2000 trill (tikkun olem, in case you don’t know, is a hebrew concept of repairing the world. It means, in its 2 little words, that each individual must observe to see if the world needs repair. if one notices that anyone has less happiness or material well-being than him or herself, then the world needs repair. And it is the individual’s responsibility to attend to it. the concept is closely related to tzedaka, which is the act of repairing or making even — it is not charity. It is not giving to less fortunate people and thus maintaining them as less fortunate. It is the teaching to fish part of the give a fish or teach expression.) next poem: (look out, some sort of v*ol*nt images, but not real bad, and not hateful. i guess it’s si stuff, just about 6 lines near the end) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 * * * * * * Denial Children’s laughter from beyond the closed window reaches my ears, though I press them between pillows. It is the sound of muffled memories and it smears my closed eyelids with blurry images: faces I know but cannot recognize, places I’ve been but cannot locate. Sunlight bends through the glass panes, lands on my skin and heats it, yet I shiver under the covers. Opening my eyes I see glittering stars floating toward me in the shining moat. I reach for them with my hand, disturb the field so they rush into the surrounding shadows, and I catch nothing but dust in my fist my closed and angry fist. I bring it back to pound on myself, split open my own lips, break my teeth, cut my tongue so I cannot speak; bludgeon and blind my eyes to keep both the memories and hope from hurting me again. (c)2000 trill Thank you again for making me welcome in this very valuable forum to me. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
thank you janedid and everyone for saying nice things to me. I’m taking another break from the moving tasks. I’ve taken more than I should, maybe more than I know. Not a lot is done. But I had fun with my dog in the park. Janedid — can I see some of your poetry and other writing? I was glad to read about writing in the "truth" posts. It is sort of a core in my life. When I started th*r*py, maybe a couple of months into it, for some reason I pulled out a box of about 20 yrs worth of journals that I’d written. I read in them all kinds of evidence of me being dissociative and multiple and stuff. It flipped me out big time. I could not remember writing a lot of the stuff. I honestly believed that the night I called my t, frantic with fear, and said, "I’m hearing voices. That’s pretty bad, right?" that I had never heard them before. But, there it was in ink on pages and pages by my hand about my life — listening to voices, trying to figure out what it meant, which ones to pay attention to, if I should do the h*rting stuff that some directed… I wrote through all of those years that I thought I was sch*z’p'n’c. I had no idea about d.i.d. or d.d.(n.o.s. or whatever). Only been dx for a few mos. Very invested in denial, but no matter how I try I can’t get away from the evidence. And, right now the evidence is that even if I’m not reading and writing here, I’m not doing what I ought to be. I’m hanging on the fridge door, or my body is, and I don’t know where I am/was for 30 min./an hour/two… Sometimes I’m leaning on a towel rack in the bathroom. And if I sit down in there or get in the shower, uh, well… the whole day can go by. Suggestions for staying focused, anyone? The process of moving seems to tr*gr me. Seeing and handling packed boxes. Trying to pack boxes. Trying to clean. Trying to decide what to keep and what to toss. What I really want is for someone else to take care of the whole thing for me, but that will never happen. So, that’s a symptom, right? Sorry for being such a motor mouth. I’ll calm down after the move and after I get used to being an active part of this. I’ve been inspired and touched by so many things that so many people have said here over the past few weeks while I’ve been unable to participate that I’m just sort of spilling over. okay, by for now. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Hi trill Just wanted to say Hi and welcome to the group. I hope you find support and healing here. Safari (okay, who has the map to life? I think I took a right when I should of taken a left.)
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – I have been reading at this ng for several weeks, maybe a month, well, I don’t know exactly. I seem to get mixed up about time. For awhile I thought that was a problem I had with some minutes, then I realized that hours were lost, then I was forced to see that I’ve even lost track of days, weeks… a couple of times I’ve ended up living somewhere and working a job in that town before I understood that I was there. And I just sort of rationalized all of that stuff for a long time. Then, after a bizarre series of events, I ended up in th*r*py and got this d.i.d. dx. A good friend told me about this ng. I’m sorry. I hope I remember all the stuff I’m supposed to splat and everthing. I’m trying to learn. I hope I don’t make too many mistakes. Please tell me if I do. I have wanted to participate in the discussion for awhile, but it’s been difficult for me to figure out how to post anon. I hope that I’ve got it down now. I’ll be flipped out if I see me actual name posted on the list. I think my job might be at risk if anybody ever figured this out about me. My job might be at risk anyway because I sometimes have trouble behaving according to my professional role. But my t keeps working with me about holding onto my position. The most recent thing in the discussion that I have wanted to respond to has been the stuff on the hospital. I had a week in one. I couldn’t believe how bad it was. I went with a lot of optimism. My t and my friend encouraged me. They said that if I went when I wasn’t in crisis, and I wasn’t at the time, that I might be able to set goals for myself and learn something about myself and how to handle stuff. But, no, no, no!!! My t and my friend agree with me, too. The place, supposedly the best in the country, sucks. And my shr*nk was the head honcho guy, super published, super respected. I have all kinds of bad names for him. I won’t list any of them, even his real name, here. But he was very bad. For example: he wanted me to take meds. I didn’t. He looked me in the eye and said, "You are very confused. You came in here confused and every time I look at you I can see that you are confused." So, I closed my eyes and told him what he was wearing, in great detail — every color of every garment, practically every stitch. Then I opened my eyes and said, "So, if I’m so confused, how have I accomplished the things I’ve accomplished?" "That’s not what we’re talking about now," he said. Also, when I got there, they took my vitamins away and wouldn’t let me take them. I had to threaten to file a grievance and get my t to make numerous phone calls before they would allow me to partake of the toxic vitamin C and the necessary iron and B12 tablets for my vegan diet. Then, because of the tussle over the vitamins, they wouldn’t let me go outside for 4 days. My dog came to visit me, and she’s one of the rare things that help me stay balanced or stable or present or grounded or whatever the lingo of the day may be, and they wouldn’t let me see her. Finally, I left in protest with some other women when we were identified by someone who was way too disoriented and v*ol*nt to have been in the unit in the first place, as being "bad girls" and making her uncomfortable. She threatened us and none of the "m*ntal health workers," a bunch of uneducated, untrained punks, all of whom were younger than my son, nor the professional staff did anything to protect us or even acknowledge that something wrong happened. So, the whole group checked out. My t was coming to see me the day I checked out, so he said he would give me a ride home. So, dig this, the big guy, my shr*nk, locked my t in the ward with us for about an hour, making him wait to get talked to. Then the big guy told my t that he was breaking boundaries and was bad for me. So my t told the big guy that he (my t) believed me about the incident and that he didn’t want to break my trust. He said it would be worse if he didn’t give me the ride than if he did. So we left. Finally. And I do trust my t, a lot. In the car on the way home, my t said this very funny line about the big guy: "He wanted to be alpha dog, but I’m not in his pack." Otherwise, I found the programs at the hsptl to be condescending on an intellectual level and way too general on emotional levels. The ps*ch**trsts (how am I supposed to write that?) were all arrogant, authoritarian pill pushers. Among the mental health workers there were several young, military model men. And they would do rounds — like looking in our bedrooms every 1/2 hr. through the night. That flipped me out big time. I mean, most of us, all of us but one, on the ward were women. We were all d.i.d. And doesn’t that mean that we shouldn’t be forced to "cope" w/such an arrangement? I thought I was going someplace to feel safe while I worked on some of my stuff. But no. I felt less safe there than I do in my apartment with a phone line and email to my t and some good friends. But a good thing for me on the ward was mtg others like me. Others who knew about stuff that I described from in my head. People who could make jokes when I dissed away hours in the shower — and sometimes they would come and get me so I could watch a movie with them or play ping pong. We played this great ping pong game. It goes like this: It’s two handed ping pong and it’s doubles. Sometimes we play off the wall instead of off the table. I mean we’re playing off the table, then someone shouts, "Off the wall" and we have to volley off the wall for a round. Sometimes we play w/out the table. Same deal — someone shouts, "No table" then we just volley in the air. The goal is not to rack up points, but to keep the ball going. And then, the winner is the one who doesn’t sw*tch, or anyway, the last one to switch. It was a lot of fun. We played every night. Staff expressed irritation, but we ignored them. Okay, I think I may have rambled on way too long for my first post, but I’ve been wanting to talk for a very long time. I am glad and relieved to have found this ng. Many of you say things that I understand, that move me, and that make me realize that I’m not a lone Wacky Bobo. Next time I post, I’ll tell you about the Wacky Bobo club and game that my pals from the ward and my friend who turned me on to this ng have developed. Meanwhile, thank you for being there. Sometimes just reading what you have to say is the thing that gets me through the night. Lately, the nights have been rough. And I have been rough on myself. Hard habits to break, but I’m trying. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Dear trill, Your poetry speaks exactly of the feelings experienced by many of us here at asd. Thank you for sharing them with us. Jane who has a writer who writes very similar poetry. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Thanks to you for welcoming me. I am moving today and tomorrow. ugh. I’m very bad at moving but I have to do it a lot. I think that it is a symptom and I hope to lick it this time. At least I only have to move next door. The new apt. is bigger, and it has a fire place and ceiling fans and a fenced yard for my great dog. I keep spacing out and not staying on task. I’d rather hang out here than do what I have to do. Anyway, I’m going to take this break to send a couple of poems that I wrote. I already sent them to my friend, who is a member here. She said that I should send them to everyone. I hope you like them. But they are kind of sad, so I am going to spoiler now. 1 potato 2 potato 3 potato 4 Hey, what are we looking for? Will we get more? Get ready now, because here they come: Tada tada My poems: Therapy My heart is not broken, cracked open neatly into halves or even quarters. No splinters lie on the ground to be gathered carefully and fit into the cracks, tightly, sealed by glue, a bit rough around the edges, but fixed and functioning, finally, like when it was new. Mine is torn, ripped open raggedly to frayed edges and worn threads, shredded in some places. Some of the fabric is missing. Mine cannot be entirely repaired; will never function again like it did before it dared reveal itself to others — others who knew not the strength of their own defense; did not understand how tools can serve as weapons. So it is difficult for this one who is rare enough to be alone in taking care to try and darn the damaged cloth and save me. He uses a large needle. It is necessary to pierce the callused outer layers of a long embattled organ. Each puncture painful as the point pricks then pushes through, pulling behind it a heavy, sawing thread to gather the pieces back to their places and knot them together again. Where those pieces touch, the blood can flow from one part to the other, but not comfortably, not freely, impeded by the same knots that restore its route. I cry out and retreat from the pain. Again and again I choose death over this. This is just another torture. Yet he perseveres, insisting that I will be stronger, when the heart is finally mended, and more able to attend to the tasks of Tikkun Olem, such as I have assigned to myself when his work is done. Eventually, he says, the knots will dissolve because the heart will grow itself again: a different heart than what was born, but, still, a heart that beats. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, waiting for the next stitch. (c)2000 trill (tikkun olem, in case you don’t know, is a hebrew concept of repairing the world. It means, in its 2 little words, that each individual must observe to see if the world needs repair. if one notices that anyone has less happiness or material well-being than him or herself, then the world needs repair. And it is the individual’s responsibility to attend to it. the concept is closely related to tzedaka, which is the act of repairing or making even — it is not charity. It is not giving to less fortunate people and thus maintaining them as less fortunate. It is the teaching to fish part of the give a fish or teach expression.) next poem: (look out, some sort of v*ol*nt images, but not real bad, and not hateful. i guess it’s si stuff, just about 6 lines near the end) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 * * * * * * Denial Children’s laughter from beyond the closed window reaches my ears, though I press them between pillows. It is the sound of muffled memories and it smears my closed eyelids with blurry images: faces I know but cannot recognize, places I’ve been but cannot locate. Sunlight bends through the glass panes, lands on my skin and heats it, yet I shiver under the covers. Opening my eyes I see glittering stars floating toward me in the shining moat. I reach for them with my hand, disturb the field so they rush into the surrounding shadows, and I catch nothing but dust in my fist my closed and angry fist. I bring it back to pound on myself, split open my own lips, break my teeth, cut my tongue so I cannot speak; bludgeon and blind my eyes to keep both the memories and hope from hurting me again. (c)2000 trill Thank you again for making me welcome in this very valuable forum to me. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Before you buy.
Response:
Hello, trill, Perhaps I will share my poems with you sometime. I am hesitant to share them with anyone, not that asd members are just anyones! They, if anyone, would understand! I, too, have many notebooks of my journalling over the years. I found one from in the seventies, and there it is, evidence of DID, long before anyone had decided that is what is wrong with me. Wrong with me, just sounded very strange. Is it wrong to be DId? I don’t remember choosing it, so how can it be wrong? It just is the way it is. I know what you mean about not remembering the writings. I can reread letters that I have written to my t last week and have them feel like they belong to someone else completely. I have been dxed for about two and a half years now, and still fighting the denial sometimes, although I think not as often nor as hard. I had a meeting with a DID specialist about two months ago, and to hear this man say that I am DID somehow closed the doors on the main part of the denial for me. I didn’t know there were others inside, and first heard them a little while after my t had started explaining the dx to me. THey came in the night as I was falling asleep, and there was a string of weird gibberish that I figure now was different ones talking. Very frightening. I have known, somehow, for years and years, that there is a little four year old in there, and I have always heard the one who screams non stop. She is a very small baby. How I knew this without thinking about them being really evident to me as others, I have no idea! Denial!? I have spent many years trying to figure out what it was that was wrong with me. I have always known that something was, but the reading that I did did not ever seem to completely feel like me. Now I read about DID and it feels entirely right. Not comfortable, but accurate. :0) I am glad that posting here is helping you. I have been talking to people here for a little over a year, I think. I have good friends here. Safe friends who understand. That is a very big thing. I find being DID is a very lonely way to be. I don’t know about you, but I feel like it needs to be a secret. I am afraid to tell anyone, and at the same time want to tell to see how they would react. Will they run screaming away from the monster me? EVen the inner ones make me feel very alone. hard to explain. A happier topic… What kind of dog have you? We have five dogs and two cats here. Animals have always felt safer to me than people. I am glad that you have your dog. Does it help to balance you when you are with him/her? I find it helps me to go out and walk with my biggest dog, especially if it is cold outside. It helps me to feel real. Take as many breaks as you need. Is there a timeline on having everything packed? Usually there is, and that is the worst feeling. I find it difficult to manage to deal with others’ timelines, or expectations for what I will be doing when. Too much inner confusion to do that. Hope that you are doing okay. Can someone help you with the packing? Jane – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – thank you janedid and everyone for saying nice things to me. I’m taking another break from the moving tasks. I’ve taken more than I should, maybe more than I know. Not a lot is done. But I had fun with my dog in the park. Janedid — can I see some of your poetry and other writing? I was glad to read about writing in the "truth" posts. It is sort of a core in my life. When I started th*r*py, maybe a couple of months into it, for some reason I pulled out a box of about 20 yrs worth of journals that I’d written. I read in them all kinds of evidence of me being dissociative and multiple and stuff. It flipped me out big time. I could not remember writing a lot of the stuff. I honestly believed that the night I called my t, frantic with fear, and said, "I’m hearing voices. That’s pretty bad, right?" that I had never heard them before. But, there it was in ink on pages and pages by my hand about my life — listening to voices, trying to figure out what it meant, which ones to pay attention to, if I should do the h*rting stuff that some directed… I wrote through all of those years that I thought I was sch*z’p'n’c. I had no idea about d.i.d. or d.d.(n.o.s. or whatever). Only been dx for a few mos. Very invested in denial, but no matter how I try I can’t get away from the evidence. And, right now the evidence is that even if I’m not reading and writing here, I’m not doing what I ought to be. I’m hanging on the fridge door, or my body is, and I don’t know where I am/was for 30 min./an hour/two… Sometimes I’m leaning on a towel rack in the bathroom. And if I sit down in there or get in the shower, uh, well… the whole day can go by. Suggestions for staying focused, anyone? The process of moving seems to tr*gr me. Seeing and handling packed boxes. Trying to pack boxes. Trying to clean. Trying to decide what to keep and what to toss. What I really want is for someone else to take care of the whole thing for me, but that will never happen. So, that’s a symptom, right? Sorry for being such a motor mouth. I’ll calm down after the move and after I get used to being an active part of this. I’ve been inspired and touched by so many things that so many people have said here over the past few weeks while I’ve been unable to participate that I’m just sort of spilling over. okay, by for now. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Before you buy.
Response:
Jane, Thank you for telling me about yourself in this way. Many things that you say could come out of my mouth and be as true. I used to describe the voices like this: It sounds like I’m in a crowded restaurant or bar, or on a full airplane. I can hear the crowd talking, but I can’t make out what anyone is saying. And sometimes it sounds like all the voices are under a dull roar, like the engines of the plane. Still, it would get so loud that I would fall on the floor and cry. My goal was for it to stop. Go away. Leave me alone to feel okay again. Then my t and my friend who is also d.i.d. both said to me to listen to them, to ask what they wanted. Bit by bit I have tried to do that, although my denial often prevents me from doing all that I should, or even listening to answers. At any rate, I’ve been able to identify some distinct voices now. They come in similar forms to yours, but I don’t feel like accounting for everyone just now. My move is almost over. Incredible people came and helped me, a huge lot, with it. Although I hadn’t prepared adequately at all, they were all very nice to me. They helped me pack and clean and they said nice comforting things to me. I felt blessed to have such good people around me, yet I kept questioning why I would deserve that. And the way I know the people, all except one of them, is from walking my dog. We all meet in the dog park every afternoon and talk while our dogs play with each other. This, sadly in a certain sense, is the best time of each day for me. I must struggle at work. It takes ten times the amount of work that my actual job does just for me to hold it together while I do it. I teach. I have to be in front of a total of 50 students for three hours on MW. Other days it’s reading and preparing and grading their papers. I love it, but I’m so fragmented and prone to disappearing right now that I fear it. I really feel like I have to consciously hold my own muscles onto my bones to be able to be in the classroom. But walking the dog in the beautiful park, by the creek, with nice people and all of their wonderful dogs is very good. And one of my teenage parts loves it too, so I can take care of some inside stuff that way, as well. A painful thing, however, is that while these people from the dog park are being kind and generous and seem to genuinely care for me, a friend whom I’ve considered to be my closest friend, whom I met in college and have known for 25 yrs, with whom I’ve raised children, done community work, and also worked on international political issues with, has stopped talking to me since I told her of my dx and the work I am doing to get well. Not only has she stopped talking to me, she also told me strange lies about myself when she walked away. She behaved as if she could make me think, because I know that I have some problems of not always being aware of myself, that things happened differently than they actually did. It’s been very strange and painful. She was the only person whom I was comfortable telling about the dx because she has been so close for so long. It’s been a big shock and caused a lot of grief and confusion. I don’t know how to get over it. I think about it every day. She lives 2 blocks away. We just used to stop in on each other. Our homes belonged to each other, so to speak. And she became a grandmother on Dec. 24, 1999 and didn’t even tell me about it. I had to hear from another source. And I used to take care of her daughter, the one who gave birth… Yes, I too want to have people close to me know, but I am afraid to tell. And therefore, I am afraid to get close. Well, I think I should go and walk my dog, female, lab/border collie mix, right now and try and relax a bit before I tackle cleaning up the dregs here in my old apartment and try to set up some comfortable corner, as I have been directed by my t (sometimes I need instructions on that basic a level of life) in my new apartment. Thank you again, Jane, and everyone else who is making me feel so welcome here. I need this a lot. Right now, as far as I’m concerned, dissociative folk are the best that humanity produces. Whatever h*rr*rs any of us have faced, whatever problems we struggle with, I don’t encounter the intelligence, insightfullness, and compassion that I find among us in any other identity group. to the great outdoors — it is still sunny and beautiful and crocuses are popping up everywhere next to jonquils and daffodils. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
trill, I don’t know the facts, and if I did, I couldn’t evaluate them better than you, but I did have one thought about your long-time friend that you might be too hurt to have considered. You say, "She behaved as if she could make me think, because I know that I have some problems of not always being aware of myself, that things happened differently than they actually did." That probably gives you a great sense of betrayal. But your dx and your re-evaluation of yourself is taking a good while for *you* to come to grips with, while your friend had to do it in a short time with an anxious you in front of her. In telling her, you were putting a different complexion on your years together. Perhaps she felt that *you* were insisting that things happened differently than they actually did, and felt betrayed. Speaking out of that feeling, she may have said stupid and hurtful things. Wish I had some wise words to go next. I’m awfully sorry it happened the way it did. pong
Response:
Hello, trill, It is an amazingly beautiful day here today. It feels like it might stay spring, although around here you never know for sure if the snow will come back until April sometime. But today it feels wonderfully springlike. I went to the pottery studio and now I have some time alone to read and write here. Perfect day! My largest dog is an Australian Shep. A fur covered bundle of energy! Yours has border in her, so you may know about that. Maybe the lab part tones her down a bit? I grew up with a lab that was calm and kind. I feel like we have a great deal in common. Your voices sound to you the way mine do to me. I still have trouble remembering to ask them what they want, and who it is and all that. Sometimes it is because it is so ordinary to hear them that i forget to do it. Sometimes it is one of them that scares me with the things she says, and i really don’t want to talk to her. I doubt that I have heard from them all yet. How can I tell that!? I am also a teacher. Or was. I don’t know if I will ever be going back to it. It is taking a long time for me to work on this t’py, and I am very glad that I don’t have to try to teach at the same time. I couldn’t do it. Besides, the one who used to do the teaching seems to have disappeared. I have been told that the inner ones do not d*e, but I sure can’t find this one anywhere. i love your description of holding the muscles onto the bones. That describes exactly how I feel sometimes! I have never been able to put it so well, though. i also have times when all I want to do is rip the skin off so I can get out of this body. Yuck. I am glad that you had help with your move. And that your t is there to help you figure out what to do. i know how hard it can be at times to decide which foot to put in front of which. DID can make me so confused sometimes, that i just cannot make the simplest decisions. I agree with you about the kindness of the people here. My theory is that we have all had enough pa*nful experience as to not wish to inflict pa*n on anyone . We know all too well how it feels to be hurt. I am sorry about your friend. Perhaps this is very frightening to her. i know that when my t started hinting that I had DID, I was terrified, and i was there inside, familiar with me! i really hope that your friend will try to continue being a friend once she calms down. I think that people who do not understand DID, have some misconceptions about the people who suffer it. Her friendship is a very huge loss to you. I’m sorry that this has happened. I really need to keep my DID to myself. I don’t have a friend as close as that one has been to you, but I don’t think that i am ready to have acquaintances look at me like I am not the person that they knew. Sometimes I am afraid that there are too many secrets already. i hope that your friend will do some reading and find out that you are still the same person you have been all these years. If she realizes that, then maybe she will not be afraid. Could you write a letter to her? Perhaps you could just send a congrats card about the grandchild? Surely she would like that. Hoping that it will work out. It is hard and sad, but it is not your fault that she doesn’t understand. Jane – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Jane, Thank you for telling me about yourself in this way. Many things that you say could come out of my mouth and be as true. I used to describe the voices like this: It sounds like I’m in a crowded restaurant or bar, or on a full airplane. I can hear the crowd talking, but I can’t make out what anyone is saying. And sometimes it sounds like all the voices are under a dull roar, like the engines of the plane. Still, it would get so loud that I would fall on the floor and cry. My goal was for it to stop. Go away. Leave me alone to feel okay again. Then my t and my friend who is also d.i.d. both said to me to listen to them, to ask what they wanted. Bit by bit I have tried to do that, although my denial often prevents me from doing all that I should, or even listening to answers. At any rate, I’ve been able to identify some distinct voices now. They come in similar forms to yours, but I don’t feel like accounting for everyone just now. My move is almost over. Incredible people came and helped me, a huge lot, with it. Although I hadn’t prepared adequately at all, they were all very nice to me. They helped me pack and clean and they said nice comforting things to me. I felt blessed to have such good people around me, yet I kept questioning why I would deserve that. And the way I know the people, all except one of them, is from walking my dog. We all meet in the dog park every afternoon and talk while our dogs play with each other. This, sadly in a certain sense, is the best time of each day for me. I must struggle at work. It takes ten times the amount of work that my actual job does just for me to hold it together while I do it. I teach. I have to be in front of a total of 50 students for three hours on MW. Other days it’s reading and preparing and grading their papers. I love it, but I’m so fragmented and prone to disappearing right now that I fear it. I really feel like I have to consciously hold my own muscles onto my bones to be able to be in the classroom. But walking the dog in the beautiful park, by the creek, with nice people and all of their wonderful dogs is very good. And one of my teenage parts loves it too, so I can take care of some inside stuff that way, as well. A painful thing, however, is that while these people from the dog park are being kind and generous and seem to genuinely care for me, a friend whom I’ve considered to be my closest friend, whom I met in college and have known for 25 yrs, with whom I’ve raised children, done community work, and also worked on international political issues with, has stopped talking to me since I told her of my dx and the work I am doing to get well. Not only has she stopped talking to me, she also told me strange lies about myself when she walked away. She behaved as if she could make me think, because I know that I have some problems of not always being aware of myself, that things happened differently than they actually did. It’s been very strange and painful. She was the only person whom I was comfortable telling about the dx because she has been so close for so long. It’s been a big shock and caused a lot of grief and confusion. I don’t know how to get over it. I think about it every day. She lives 2 blocks away. We just used to stop in on each other. Our homes belonged to each other, so to speak. And she became a grandmother on Dec. 24, 1999 and didn’t even tell me about it. I had to hear from another source. And I used to take care of her daughter, the one who gave birth… Yes, I too want to have people close to me know, but I am afraid to tell. And therefore, I am afraid to get close. Well, I think I should go and walk my dog, female, lab/border collie mix, right now and try and relax a bit before I tackle cleaning up the dregs here in my old apartment and try to set up some comfortable corner, as I have been directed by my t (sometimes I need instructions on that basic a level of life) in my new apartment. Thank you again, Jane, and everyone else who is making me feel so welcome here. I need this a lot. Right now, as far as I’m concerned, dissociative folk are the best that humanity produces. Whatever h*rr*rs any of us have faced, whatever problems we struggle with, I don’t encounter the intelligence, insightfullness, and compassion that I find among us in any other identity group. to the great outdoors — it is still sunny and beautiful and crocuses are popping up everywhere next to jonquils and daffodils. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Before you buy.
Response:
Once again, please forgive me for taking up bandwidth as I indulge me ego. I was about to lose these poems and I want to keep them, so I thought I’d repost them. They were going to be dropped from the Remarq archives in the next couple of days. They’re gone from my server. And being that I have to have dissed in order to write them, I’m too dissy to have saved good hard copies of them somewhere that I can remember. Also, I don’t have a printer. So, here goes. Please forgive me because I am sorry, but not sorry enough not to do it. trill – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Thanks to you for welcoming me. I am moving today and tomorrow. ugh. I’m very bad at moving but I have to do it a lot. I think that it is a symptom and I hope to lick it this time. At least I only have to move next door. The new apt. is bigger, and it has a fire place and ceiling fans and a fenced yard for my great dog. I keep spacing out and not staying on task. I’d rather hang out here than do what I have to do. Anyway, I’m going to take this break to send a couple of poems that I wrote. I already sent them to my friend, who is a member here. She said that I should send them to everyone. I hope you like them. But they are kind of sad, so I am going to spoiler now. 1 potato 2 potato 3 potato 4 Hey, what are we looking for? Will we get more? Get ready now, because here they come: Tada tada My poems: Therapy My heart is not broken, cracked open neatly into halves or even quarters. No splinters lie on the ground to be gathered carefully and fit into the cracks, tightly, sealed by glue, a bit rough around the edges, but fixed and functioning, finally, like when it was new. Mine is torn, ripped open raggedly to frayed edges and worn threads, shredded in some places. Some of the fabric is missing. Mine cannot be entirely repaired; will never function again like it did before it dared reveal itself to others — others who knew not the strength of their own defense; did not understand how tools can serve as weapons. So it is difficult for this one who is rare enough to be alone in taking care to try and darn the damaged cloth and save me. He uses a large needle. It is necessary to pierce the callused outer layers of a long embattled organ. Each puncture painful as the point pricks then pushes through, pulling behind it a heavy, sawing thread to gather the pieces back to their places and knot them together again. Where those pieces touch, the blood can flow from one part to the other, but not comfortably, not freely, impeded by the same knots that restore its route. I cry out and retreat from the pain. Again and again I choose death over this. This is just another torture. Yet he perseveres, insisting that I will be stronger, when the heart is finally mended, and more able to attend to the tasks of Tikkun Olem, such as I have assigned to myself when his work is done. Eventually, he says, the knots will dissolve because the heart will grow itself again: a different heart than what was born, but, still, a heart that beats. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, waiting for the next stitch. (c)2000 trill (tikkun olem, in case you don’t know, is a hebrew concept of repairing the world. It means, in its 2 little words, that each individual must observe to see if the world needs repair. if one notices that anyone has less happiness or material well-being than him or herself, then the world needs repair. And it is the individual’s responsibility to attend to it. the concept is closely related to tzedaka, which is the act of repairing or making even — it is not charity. It is not giving to less fortunate people and thus maintaining them as less fortunate. It is the teaching to fish part of the give a fish or teach expression.) next poem: (look out, some sort of v*ol*nt images, but not real bad, and not hateful. i guess it’s si stuff, just about 6 lines near the end) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 * * * * * * Denial Children’s laughter from beyond the closed window reaches my ears, though I press them between pillows. It is the sound of muffled memories and it smears my closed eyelids with blurry images: faces I know but cannot recognize, places I’ve been but cannot locate. Sunlight bends through the glass panes, lands on my skin and heats it, yet I shiver under the covers. Opening my eyes I see glittering stars floating toward me in the shining moat. I reach for them with my hand, disturb the field so they rush into the surrounding shadows, and I catch nothing but dust in my fist my closed and angry fist. I bring it back to pound on myself, split open my own lips, break my teeth, cut my tongue so I cannot speak; bludgeon and blind my eyes to keep both the memories and hope from hurting me again. (c)2000 trill Thank you again for making me welcome in this very valuable forum to me. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s
Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
* Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Wow trill Very touching and heartfelt pieces of work thank you so very very much soft hugs J/C
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Once again, please forgive me for taking up bandwidth as I indulge me ego. I was about to lose these poems and I want to keep them, so I thought I’d repost them. They were going to be dropped from the Remarq archives in the next couple of days. They’re gone from my server. And being that I have to have dissed in order to write them, I’m too dissy to have saved good hard copies of them somewhere that I can remember. Also, I don’t have a printer. So, here goes. Please forgive me because I am sorry, but not sorry enough not to do it. trill Thanks to you for welcoming me. I am moving today and tomorrow. ugh. I’m very bad at moving but I have to do it a lot. I think that it is a symptom and I hope to lick it this time. At least I only have to move next door. The new apt. is bigger, and it has a fire place and ceiling fans and a fenced yard for my great dog. I keep spacing out and not staying on task. I’d rather hang out here than do what I have to do. Anyway, I’m going to take this break to send a couple of poems that I wrote. I already sent them to my friend, who is a member here. She said that I should send them to everyone. I hope you like them. But they are kind of sad, so I am going to spoiler now. 1 potato 2 potato 3 potato 4 Hey, what are we looking for? Will we get more? Get ready now, because here they come: Tada tada My poems: Therapy My heart is not broken, cracked open neatly into halves or even quarters. No splinters lie on the ground to be gathered carefully and fit into the cracks, tightly, sealed by glue, a bit rough around the edges, but fixed and functioning, finally, like when it was new. Mine is torn, ripped open raggedly to frayed edges and worn threads, shredded in some places. Some of the fabric is missing. Mine cannot be entirely repaired; will never function again like it did before it dared reveal itself to others — others who knew not the strength of their own defense; did not understand how tools can serve as weapons. So it is difficult for this one who is rare enough to be alone in taking care to try and darn the damaged cloth and save me. He uses a large needle. It is necessary to pierce the callused outer layers of a long embattled organ. Each puncture painful as the point pricks then pushes through, pulling behind it a heavy, sawing thread to gather the pieces back to their places and knot them together again. Where those pieces touch, the blood can flow from one part to the other, but not comfortably, not freely, impeded by the same knots that restore its route. I cry out and retreat from the pain. Again and again I choose death over this. This is just another torture. Yet he perseveres, insisting that I will be stronger, when the heart is finally mended, and more able to attend to the tasks of Tikkun Olem, such as I have assigned to myself when his work is done. Eventually, he says, the knots will dissolve because the heart will grow itself again: a different heart than what was born, but, still, a heart that beats. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, waiting for the next stitch. (c)2000 trill (tikkun olem, in case you don’t know, is a hebrew concept of repairing the world. It means, in its 2 little words, that each individual must observe to see if the world needs repair. if one notices that anyone has less happiness or material well-being than him or herself, then the world needs repair. And it is the individual’s responsibility to attend to it. the concept is closely related to tzedaka, which is the act of repairing or making even — it is not charity. It is not giving to less fortunate people and thus maintaining them as less fortunate. It is the teaching to fish part of the give a fish or teach expression.) next poem: (look out, some sort of v*ol*nt images, but not real bad, and not hateful. i guess it’s si stuff, just about 6 lines near the end) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 * * * * * * Denial Children’s laughter from beyond the closed window reaches my ears, though I press them between pillows. It is the sound of muffled memories and it smears my closed eyelids with blurry images: faces I know but cannot recognize, places I’ve been but cannot locate. Sunlight bends through the glass panes, lands on my skin and heats it, yet I shiver under the covers. Opening my eyes I see glittering stars floating toward me in the shining moat. I reach for them with my hand, disturb the field so they rush into the surrounding shadows, and I catch nothing but dust in my fist my closed and angry fist. I bring it back to pound on myself, split open my own lips, break my teeth, cut my tongue so I cannot speak; bludgeon and blind my eyes to keep both the memories and hope from hurting me again. (c)2000 trill Thank you again for making me welcome in this very valuable forum to me. trill * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free! * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Wow Trill– I am soo sorry I missed these the first time around. Very powerful imagery….thank you for sharing them with us again. Safari
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Once again, please forgive me for taking up bandwidth as I indulge me ego. I was about to lose these poems and I want to keep them, so I thought I’d repost them. They were going to be dropped from the Remarq archives in the next couple of days. They’re gone from my server. And being that I have to have dissed in order to write them, I’m too dissy to have saved good hard copies of them somewhere that I can remember. Also, I don’t have a printer. So, here goes. Please forgive me because I am sorry, but not sorry enough not to do it. trill
Response:
Thanks for the compliments, you guys. My t keeps telling me that I’m getting better because I can articulate what goes on with me. I don’t believe it. I’m fooling him and anyone else who thinks that I’m in the least bit in control of myself. I want to set up the Wacky Bo Bo retreat immediately because I’m afraid of the current mh hospitals and I need to be someplace where rl and I are guarded from each other. Just grocery shopping today took the whole day and wigged me out and I’m left a trail of evidence of switching all around me and you wouldn’t believe what’s in the freezer now and how much money is drained out of my banck acct. trill, W.B.B., DID, S.U.M.A. (amounting to nothing) * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet’s Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet – Free!
Response:
Dear Trill, maybe one day, i too will have the skills you have thankyou for sharing DC – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Wow Trill– I am soo sorry I missed these the first time around. Very powerful imagery….thank you for sharing them with us again. Safari Once again, please forgive me for taking up bandwidth as I indulge me ego. I was about to lose these poems and I want to keep them, so I thought I’d repost them. They were going to be dropped from the Remarq archives in the next couple of days. They’re gone from my server. And being that I have to have dissed in order to write them, I’m too dissy to have saved good hard copies of them somewhere that I can remember. Also, I don’t have a printer. So, here goes. Please forgive me because I am sorry, but not sorry enough not to do it. trill
If you like this post and would like to receive updates from this blog, please subscribe our feed.