Lights and Warm Breath

 February 15, 2004

They said I lit up the room when I entered

They asked me how I could smile all the time

They always told me how nice I was

They didn’t know me very well, did they?

Before, I could touch nature with my heart

Before, the world lit up when I walked through it

Before, I was fearless in the woods

Now in life, I am hermetically sealed.

I used to often feel high

My meditation was instant and enriching

I used to feel safe knowing I could always “go away”

Being away doesn’t feel right any more.

For years, I felt I was an open book

My credo was to be honest and true

And I felt communication was the way

I was jolted to realize I had not done these things for me.

My therapist said that when one stifles feelings

The feelings include both the highs and the lows

Now I understand why my life feels static

Sounding like a heart monitor with nothing left to read.

As I sit here with my pen

I wonder if I will ever again connect

The world, my body and my soul

Or will I remain in my hermetically sealed domain?

Last night I felt a woman’s pain and fear

Last night there might have been a hole in my own zone

A tiny opening where true feelings flowed

I wonder if I allowed any of me to escape.

A tiny unlikely connection

With a soul who had no knowledge

Was it I understood her pain

Or was I just seeing myself?

I want to feel a leaf again

And the lighted aura of a pine

A white cat just walked by my window

Will I ever feel its warm breath again?

By inside people Rose, Paula and Stephanie

1954-55

 March 9, 2003

When I wake up on Mother’s Day

My heart sinks as if to say

This is not a day to celebrate

The passion inside only feels like hate.

What did she do from whose womb I climbed?

Locking my hands with a rope to bind

She did not stomp upon my head,

Nor circled light around my bed.

Someone inside still loves her so,

But the others have taken too much of a blow

Her heart was cold, she would not change

And the girl child “we” began to arrange.

The grave she laid all covered with dirt

One of us died so the others don’t hurt

The others hid so they couldn’t be found

But one gave in and laid there bound.

Bound with no sound nor comfort to feel

The girl child’s will they wanted to steal

Wearing brown, the dirt conceals

And many lights later we started to heal.

To Mother’s Day, hip hip hooray

All stand around and silently say

You gave us life then took it away

And one poor child, in earth, does she stay.

Mothers, graves and pansies don’t mix

And hurting the child to get her kicks

Now the children hide with one left behind

One small soul saved the others, no mind.

Small sacrifice, young soul gives all

She goes away so the others don’t fall

Happy Mother’s Day, we hope you liked this gift

We still search, and through the dirt we sift.

Written by insiders Patricia, Beth, Jack, Tony, and others

for Mother’s Day 1954-55

What Feelings Are These?

 July 12, 2003

What feelings are these that make me shiver?

That make me wince and my loins to quiver,

What rape, indignity caused this shame,

Whose indiscretion, who is to blame?

A family secret, an annual event,

Was this child’s body – what purpose lent?

The invisible rapist I feel him quite often,

Abuse of a child, does it ever get softer?

The girl child lives in the woman’s body still,

And presses on due to spirit and will,

Abuse of the child is abuse of her ages

Childhood’s terror led to pain-filled pages.

When they scarred the child did they look to the future?

A sexual act by an angry butcher,

It’s not the youth or the old age lost,

It’s quality and innocence at what grand cost?

They may find the child and have their way,

Did they consider at all what the woman would say?

Did they worry at all of her daily pain?

As a sexual tool she had nothing to gain.

The girl child looks inward and sees lust relieved,

Her body used often, her childhood she grieved,

The child as victim does not stand-alone,

The woman who follows fights her pain to the bone.

A damaged child lasts not forever,

The teen and the woman continue to endeavor,

The child you see is not the only lost soul,

And the woman struggles on less the parts that they stole.

Can’t you see that the lost child grows older?

She becomes a woman carrying misery on her shoulder.

It’s not the one life that is damaged forever,

It’s all of us now whose pain ends never.

A Time Out

I need to take some time out from updating this blog. The material is triggering to me and is causing some serious somatic (body) memories. The posts are written mostly by my inside people, and they are still fragile when certain information surfaces.  I will add posts as I can.

I also occasionally post about DID/MPD on Quora: https://www.quora.com/Judi-Lowell.

A Light Needs Not a Shadow to Shine

By Judi and her inside friends

January 3, 2002

Sad we are the day we died,

How it happened, the people lied.

I sit up straight all pale and white,

Looking back, we tried to fight.

What hurts me most when people see

The girl not there but trying to be;

Or the girl who’s there and has fallen behind

Hiding behind each simple young mind.

When I stand alone, I cast no shadow,

And when I stand not, I cast no glow.

The burning life, the force within,

Flickered and died, an ash of sin.

The mirror oft shows me that nothing is there,

And I try to remember that life is not fair,

The eyes look back that hold no soul,

To attach a life is a lifetime goal.

Sometimes I dance so someone will notice

A transparent self that no one would miss

I dance and I dance with arms flailing wildly,

And some see through, but notice me mildly.

It hurts when they see that I’m not even there,

Withered and bowed, they don’t even care.

They notice not the façade I’ve become

But the façade I’m not, well no matter, I’m numb.

I want to imagine a self taking shape,

A body that stands so something can drape.

A foot that walks and leaves its prints,

An aura that shines and a soul that glints.

Even I sit and stare and cannot see,

The girl who knows she’ll never be.

Can I penetrate a body gone far far away?

Or did this child die young, I cannot say.

Sitting and feeling I try to cast light,

Collecting my souls so they don’t take flight.

Can I sit with it all and feel the force;

The power now gathered from each little source.

We all stand solid, our energies fused,

And the shadow now cast will not be bruised.

The girl in the mirror now often winks back,

All souls now one, they cannot crack.

Each day we gather and bind one to all,

Our force becomes stronger; no need now to crawl.

The people who see are part of the light,

The others, too bad, they’re just not so bright.

A Very Special Poem By My Inside Wise One, Christopher

 September 2000

The memories lay and the forgetting grows,

The mind sets forth, but then it slows.

You need to pace yourself to learn,

The knowledge comes with a long slow burn.

Childish whispers surround you in sleep,

Sorrowful sounds how long can you keep,

The young ones quiet to soften the night;

You know you must listen to step into the light.

The young don’t want to hide the past,

Because the troubles and the hurt just lasts.

They chat to you and tell their stories,

The curtain rises to their small glories.

Judi, listen to Christopher now,

I will tell you something, just listen how.

Walk around your inside mind,

But look and see, don’t act so blind.

We’ll walk with you and hold your hand,

So listen nigh, they understand.

You’re fearful right? We know it’s true.

To know all now, you will not rue.

Let the small ones now tell their stories,

In their sad tales, you’ll hear of glories.

The truth won’t hurt you, just let it come,

Their tales of trials you cannot shun.

They stood before you all strength and might,

They did their deeds, in the cloak of the night.

These people hurt you, you must know this,

Their nasty ways all sweat and piss.

You hated it; it scared you so,

Why they did it, you’ll never know.

They treated you just like a doll,

And yet, in fact you were just that small.

They abused your body; they tore at your mind,

They tied you up in such a bind,

Let the little ones talk to unload their souls,

Come up come up and fill in those holes.

How you do this, I can help you some.

Start with a sigh and a little hum.

Let them guide you and pull you along,

They’re all kind spirits, and they’ve made you strong.

Their voices will come from their tiny hearts,

To your ears only like little darts.

Kiss them, hug them, and speak to them low,

Because your life, to them you owe.

A Safe, Forever Home

Written when I was a Court Appointed Special Advocate for Abused and Neglected Children (CASA) for an event to promote fostering or adoption

December 1, 2001

When you’re abused and neglected and you’re just a little kid,

You’re taken from your parents for the things they never did.

Or maybe it was some bad acts that caused the hurt and shame,

And you end up in the system feeling you are all to blame.

The social workers care and fulfill your basic needs,

But who can mend the shattered heart that caused your soul to bleed?

For now you move from home to home hoping for a match,

And wonder why they just can’t see how much you are “a catch”.

Your heart’s caught up in turmoil when you miss your family so,

But you’ve got this house, good food and care – it seems the way to go.

Especially when they discover that your folks don’t want you back,

The grief of that desertion turns your entire world to black.

You wonder who could want you since your Mama dropped you there.

You must have some huge gaping flaws of which you’re not aware.

So you sit right down and wonder why nobody wants you now,

You want a home, someone to care, and you get all that just how?

You find you have to wait until a perfect match is found,

But you’re too young or much too old, your jokes fail to astound.

You find they never want to adopt a kid they know has pain,

They worry that your sad, sad life has left you quite insane.

And you wonder why they can’t see through the defensive show you flaunt,

A little time and a lot of love will make you one to want.

But then they see your green eyes, and it’s brown was on their list,

Can’t they see my good points or will they all be missed?

So I sit and wait and always pray that someone chooses me,

But without adoptive families this likely just won’t be.

Maybe I’ll keep moving and get tough to stand the pain,

I’ll hang out with the bad dudes and my life goes down the drain.

Please don’t ever think that you lack what most kids need,

Attention, love and caring are what really plant the seed.

The seed that causes growth and pride and self-esteem will bloom,

Just grab a kid and lift him up to save him from the gloom.

Single folk or poor doesn’t mean you lack the love,

To take a child from sadness and lift him high above.

So when you leave be sure to grab some spirit from each kid,

And give your friends and family a pinch of pain to rid.

Adopt a child or foster too so all get the very best care,

And inform as many are willing to hear, so more become aware.

The world is full of hate and war, but we can do our part,

Lift a child, watch him grow, and give him a brand new start.

A Poem

Written in the morning on Friday, April 7, 2000

By Christopher, et al (Judi’s inside people)

Close down little one,

Look close and see the sun.

Puffs of clouds look your way,

Drops of rain, nothing to say

By and large the world is ours,

You can tell in the eyes of flowers,

Trek the trails both high and low,

Look behind you as you go.

Passion whips us and we nod,

Save the child and hide the rod,

Shuffling nowhere we sit and ponder,

Letting thoughts pause and wander.

Cannot see you but you know

From our hearts our love doth flow,

Show me sides of you that hide,

The ones down deep that do abide.

By all the orders and carry out,

Let them dance, sing, roar, and shout!

They won’t hurt you or others still,

It’s not in us to do or kill.

Becoming one but staying all,

Let them jump the iron wall.

Shake their hands and kiss their cheeks,

They’ve wanted you to for weeks.

They stand back while you go forth,

Let them know what all they’re worth;

Grab the paintbrush paint the town,

Sing the song don’t let them down.

We shall triumph one and all,

And through this means, we learn to crawl.

Forward forward up the stairs,

No looking back and no bewares.

All for one and one for all;

Celebrate now, don’t fear recall.

March

Unknown Date

March

The times are lean and our days are short,

Our friends inside we need to court

You must not lie and keep it going

Life is learning so continue its flowing

The world is twisted with hate and greed

Power rules all from one corrupt seed.

It’s time to slow and look what we’re doing

Remember it all, recall what your viewing.

When one’s soul is dead and the others now follow,

They chase nothing there, just empty and hollow.

Why choose the nothing, the soul with no spark?

Why walk from the light and into the dark?

Tripping and groping they look for the way.

You want to help out, but know not what to say.

Stumbling and bumping into so many walls,

I can’t be surprised when each one then falls.

The world now grows sicker and its people are dying.

You hope for some help, but it seems no one is trying.

When will they stand and open each heat,

All dead souls to die and healing to start?

This sounds so easy you must now be saying.

As your bones start to ache and your hair is now graying.

It all is simple or straightforward not,

But consider the way and knowledge you’ve sought.

The world can heal and it starts here with you,

If one soul comes back, the others will too.

And when all souls are gathered and ready to talk,

With hands clasped together the truth cannot shock.

You know the old saying one for all, all for one?

The wise hold that dearly so none of them run.

But they also tell us that they are not without fear.

With eyes open, March, and the truth will draw near.

By Judi’s friends and special thanks to Christopher.

A Piece of my Journal and "Squirt"

Title:  2 May 2008 Untitled
Date:  2 May 2008 12:37 PM
Category:  Daily Chat

I haven’t written for a few days - I guess I have felt busy, although whether or not I’m actually busy is a point to ponder. I had my visit with Dr. J on Tuesday and I almost didn’t make it. I actually went to the dog park in the morning, but when I got into the car, I had the urge to sleep. I went home, fed the dogs and jumped into bed and zonked out. Tim woke me up at 1:00 for lunch and then I conked out again until the time I was supposed to leave. I wasn’t sure if I should go because I was worried about driving when I was having sleep attacks, but I went for it and I did ok. I also had a piercing headache - the multiple kind - on the right side of my head. It’s the headache that comes when inside people don’t want me to talk about something - usually. I think that and the sleep attacks are a clear indication that inside people didn’t want me to make my appointment with Dr. J.

The appt. actually went alright - a little one, named “Squirt” came out to talk. She said that Patricia called her Squirt and she is 5-6 years old. She looked at the picture on Dr. J’s wall and saw a body floating under the water in the picture. Dr. J pointed out that she could see a fish - and after some time, we saw the fish as well. But the “dead girl” was very clear to her and reminded her of “the dead girl” in our system that was buried in dirt. I never noticed either the “body” or the fish in the artwork - just water and leaves floating on the surface. Interesting.

Last afternoon I was getting quite anxious and then last night I think I had some anger going on - I don’t know what it was from. Tim suggested I go to sleep early, which I did - good idea. This morning, I woke up feeling miserable. It seemed I had a lot going on in my head and I wasn’t into chatting with Tim at all. When he left I went back to sleep. Sandra had called but I didn’t pick up or call back. I never did go to the dog park today; just opened the back door and hoped the dogs would go out for themselves. They didn’t (not surprising), so at about 11:30 I finally got up and took them into the back yard for a pee and whatever. I very rarely do that, but I really don’t feel like seeing anyone or talking to anyone today. I just want to be left alone.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to Sandra and Rob’s tonight - we’ll see. Tim said he would come home to pick me up if that would help. We’ll see if I’m feeling better.

Flying With Red Sneakers On

Title:  27 April 2008 -
Flying with Red Sneakers on - A Poem
Date:  27 April 2008 10:16 PM
Category:  Daily Chat

Walking along the beach with red sneakers on
Looking for driftwood - smooth and satiny
and the forgotten shell perhaps
Maybe these will fly?

Walking along my mind wearing purple tights
Hoping to catch wind of something blowing
You don’t know what the air will bring
To you if you wait for it

So when the air blows and you find smooth wood
How do you know this will fly?
Or is it just a matter of time and matter
It won’t matter if you don’t make time

So blowing along on the air of time
I hope to matter somewhat if not a little
But matter can hurt if you aren’t careful
And stub your toe on a wayward shell

The shell that surrounds the air
That doesn’t matter with the...
or would it matter, smooth and shiny
Only if it can fly.

A casual walk wearing red sneakers with white rubber tips
Avoiding the shells and looking for driftwood
Maybe it’s time to investigate a shell
That surrounds the air that matters?

Something for us to think about.

More Body Memories

Title:  Penis in my hand
Date:  30 May 2007 11:18 AM
Category:  Personal

Penis in my hand shoving into me
Don't make me do that again
I can't look at you anymore
Because there is too much pain.

"?????" is that you?
Why would you try to hurt me so?
Why can't I be like other girls and boys?
Why do I have to hurt?

I would run away but I don't know where to go.
Someone would find me, they always do.
Then I get sleepy and have bad dreams
And I hurt.

I can never not do it
So my body acts like a machine
I always thought I would break in two
And maybe I did.

I'm very tired and I try to sleep
But I can't sleep, I'm not allowed
They keep bothering me
No one will leave me alone, ever.

I can't make it stop, them stop.
So I go to sleep inside where they can't get me
I wonder if there will be anything left of me
But there always is.

Body Memories

Title:  8 May 2007 The Worst Body Memories
Date:  8 May 2007 7:49 AM
Category:  Personal

I have to write about these body memories. They must be almost the worst I've experienced, mostly because they have gone on for days. Last Saturday I woke up with them and even when I was shopping in Westfield, they were horrible. I know my face must have shown the pain and discomfort. They bothered me the rest of the day and into the night until I fell asleep. They were still going strong Sunday, so I took a xanax which helped. I think I need to do that when they flair up that badly. Last night during the night I felt very anxious, and actually had gone to sleep at 8:00. I woke up during the night very anxious and this morning slightly anxious. I see Dr. J today. We have plenty to talk about. I don't know why this is so bad right now. I'm not aware of any triggers -

Dirt hit me like sleet hitting pavement
Tiny child in the hole
I don't think there was any cover
just dirt and skin

She's just a little dead girl
And she's still one of us
She gave her body to the bad ones
But we still have her heart

She is the bravest of us all
And died for us
How can we ever repay her?
The dead girl in the hole.

One time we felt the dirt
As it must have felt
Dirt raining down - brown dirt
Walking in the corridor.

They meant to kill her
So they could claim her soul
But that didn't work
Her soul stays with us.

I can see them standing around, watching
As shovels fill the hole
You could still see the little girl
As she floated away.

I dreamt last night of doing things wrong
And not performing on the stage
Everyone said take drugs you must
I did and didn't

Is that what it's all about?
The drug induced state of “hole”-ness
Imagination is fertile
When chemicals can sway your world

Her world of dirt and chemicals - drugs
Did they mean to kill her?
Or did she die of the belief?
I think you can die if you think you're dead.

We take care of the dead girl now
We owe her our existence
So brave for one so small
Why would they want her dead?

VA Tech Shooting

Title:  VA Tech - Trying to Understand
Date:  18 April 2007 4:19 PM
Category:  Personal Poem

Weapons of mass destruction kill thousands or thirty-two
How can you measure the forces of sadness and loss and grief?
How does it feel standing - facing - a bullet-exploding door
Trying to save your own life?

Sometimes we think that wouldn't be so bad
But scary even with our approval
I wonder if we would take it personally
Thinking someone wanted to kill us - whoever we are?

I like to think that my heroism would bust out saving all
Even if it was time for me to go away.
It's easy to be brave and heroic with words
How does it feel facing steely dead killing eyes?

I would have, of course, tried to talk to the shooter
To help him work through his anger issues and anxieties
We would sit together over a beer and chat
I would tell him why it wasn't a good idea to kill people.

I would of course request all people go safely elsewhere
So that the shooter and I could talk without distraction
I would ask him why he wanted to kill others
When he could just commit suicide and float gently away.

He would tell me they all deserved it, those people
And why he was angry with them and they had to die
I would ask him if he wanted company during his death
I would ask him why he felt that would help, him.

The shooter and I would relax more from the beer
And from our good conversation about anger and hate
The shooter would lean back and sigh, perhaps he would look confused
I would ask the shooter how he felt.

The shooter would tell me he felt better and he wished he had talked to me before
Before he decided to kill those people who walked by his life
I would feel the shooter's pain deep in my gut and my heart would hurt
And then I would kill him with his own gun.

Tim's Version of One of My Abreactions

Date: 3 August 2008 8:35:31 PM AEST
To: Judi Lowell <judi.lowell@gmail.com>
Subject: Abreaction? on Saturday August 3


1. Just finished watching "3:10 to Yuma"
2. Turned to look at Judi, she was sitting silently with a look of anguish, head back, no tears. A silent scream.
3. I asked how she was doing - no reply for a few minutes.
4. She eventually said that she couldn't do it anymore - it was too much. She wanted it to stop. Repeated over and over. Head was back and she shook it from side to side.
5. I touched her arm. Sammy came and looked carefully at her. I put her hand on him. This seemed to help.
6. We just sat for 5 - 10 minutes and eventually went to bed.

Definition of "Abreaction"
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abreaction

Blogfright

March 2007

Sheesh, what to say now? I want to talk about my DID…. Now that I can… I’ve got BLOGFRIGHT!!!!!

The real problem is that I have too much I want to say. I want to tell you about my DID, but I also want you to know more about DID in general (i.e., How does it start, how long does it last, is it curable, how many people have DID, etc.) I remember when I was diagnosed in 1997, well, some things I remember. For example, I remember not being able to comprehend that I had +/- 60 different parts/alters in my head. I remember going to work and wondering if anyone could see how fragmented I was. I used to be so secretive about the DID – (in little, backward Socorro, NM) that I was convinced if people found out, they would burn me at the stake as if I was a witch.

Most people would not ever know when I was “switched” (i.e., someone else). A lot of my “alters” were regular people who did specialized jobs for when I could not. Stephanie was the professional worker (mostly the Human Resource Manager). I also have various “professional” drivers, so that I am probably a better and more consistent driver than most people on the road (I think I had one parking ticket, but I’m not sure). There are others. You probably recognize some of these “people-types” – you probably have your own set. The difference is one of degree and level of dissociation. Common dissociation is spacing out as you drive down the freeway. Not so common dissociation is spacing out so much that someone else comes out to deal with life, while you’re perhaps hiding in a corner of your own mind.

I hope you are as impressed with my husband (now divorced) as I am. How many men could sit and talk to their 40-something wife (after recent marriage), and still sit and talk to that woman when her seven year old alter comes out. Think about it. Actually, I was probably more freaked out than he was. Tim has been incredible during this entire ordeal. Since he met Patricia (7 years old), he has chatted with numerous alters of different ages and temperaments. Surely, I would never have made it without his support over the last ten years. As difficult and challenging as it has been, he still has fun watching me (and my little folk) watch “kid” movies. When I was watching the movie, Alaska, about two kids looking for their father in cold country (the father had crashed his plane on a mountain). The kids were adopted by (and adopted) “Cubby” the polar bear cub. Of course, these children got into all sorts of frightening and dangerous situations, during which my little one, “Tanya,” would holler out, “Cubby, save boy!!!” or “Cubby, where girl, go find girl!!” I have to say I’m incredibly cute as a kid.

There’s so much more to say, but I have time.

Judi, et al

Trying to Explain

April, 2007

Multiple Personality Disorder and Being

“Multiple Personality Disorder” (MPD) is the outdated term for the currently accepted term “Dissociative Identity Disorder” (DID). I use these acronyms interchangeably. I usually refer to myself as “multiple”, so I’ll stick with that.

Trying to write about my multiplicity is no easy task. How many people find it interesting? Who finds it interesting? What do they think is interesting about it?

For entertainment value, there are lots of good jokes about multiples. For example:

How many alters does it take to change a light bulb?

As many as will: one to change the bulb, one to change it back, three to argue over whether they want it light or dark, one to throw the light bulb against the wall to hear it crash, one to clean up the mess, four to go shopping for new bulbs and come home with stockings, licorice, Disney movies, popcorn and masking tape, one who insists it "IS" the light bulb and doesn't understand why everyone always wants it to change and can't it just be itself???? etc....

How many alters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

“4”      --- 1 to screw in the light bulb, 1 to watch the screwing in of the light bulb, 1 to deny the screwing in of the light bulb ever happened, and 1 to repress the memory.

A difficult thing about living multiple is that many of my friends cannot understand when I am having a hard time. For friends who knew me “before diagnosis,” it is particularly confusing. In fact, it might be as difficult for them to accept my multiplicity as it was for me when first diagnosed. It’s a “concept” that is just difficult to “get your head around.”

It is also hard for friends to understand my need for solitude and quiet. Due to the extra activity in my brain, I become over-stimulated quickly. I can only tolerate being around anyone for more than 2-3 hours at a time… to say nothing of the many times I need to be alone. How can I expect a friend to understand that I have “someone” crying “inside” causing me to be sad or anxious?

It is also difficult for an “SPD” (singular personality disorder – ha ha) to understand my concept of time. I guess that “concept” would best be described as “variable.” For example, a couple of months might feel like a couple of weeks to me. I’ll try to explain more later. I don’t want you getting bored!

The Mask

This is a poem I found. I have no idea when I/we wrote it. It's meaning is not clear to me. I also try hard not to "correct" items in the writing, because I feel that whoever (me) wrote it, wrote it that way for a reason.

A mask is what she wore to cover

An obvious incapability.

At what?

To converse, talk freely, intelligently, to hate, desire, laugh, love?

A yellow veil enclosed her brain,

An actress at heart, but was there more?

He an actor somewhat like herself,

But they were of two kinds,

Similar scripts, but different inside.

“Mechanical beetles” crackle when stepped

upon, but is there no life but the life of an insect?

Can a man remain himself?

Innate characteristics, must they be extinguished?

The New Worlds Symphony, sight, sound, taste, smell,

touch, feel, feeling sensitive?

Yes.

He is like an archeologist,

Digging through her soul, beneath the mask, the smile.

What was buried was not forgotten.

Pompeii lost to the volcano,

I to my mask. You to yours.

She is like a city reborn, lost treasures, re-found.

Hopefully beetles are stepped on,

Man versus insect.

She smiles with mask discarded,

Grateful.

He has and will.

She goes, he smiles.

He stays, she smiles.

Together, they laugh.

March 2007 - Some Thoughts

Tim asked me why I haven’t blogged yet, and I think it’s because I have so much to say, I don’t know where to start. I want to talk about mental health issues so we can all get them out of the closet (rather than hiding them as the dirty secret).  I hardly know anyone who is not taking antidepressant medication. So, it stands to reason that at least a few people have mental health “issues.” This is one reason why I want to write about my DID/MPD. People need encouragement to talk about their personal problems and challenges. If more of us open up, perhaps that can happen.

Isn’t it fascinating? The human mind is amazing. At one point in my therapy, we identified 60 +/- “alters” – my inside people. I have male alters, women alters, child alters, partial alters, a cussing teenage girl alter, I’m sure I have a dog alter... I have one alter who has poor hearing and my eyesight varies as to “who” is seeing at the time. It is now possible for scientists to watch a person’s “switching” happening on a brain-scanning machine. Incredible!

Not long after my diagnosis in the 1990’s, I would have alters write poetry for (and to) me. I would do the physical act of writing, but it was as though I was channeling someone else’s words. I could write a five-page poem with complex metaphors, etc. in under 20 minutes. During the writing process, I would think, “this doesn’t make sense.” But at the final reading, I was always amazed how everything came together. I would like to show you some of my/our poetry. Some of it is simple, some of it is complex, sometimes it’s a little too sing-songy, but it’s always interesting. I will cut some parts out due to triggering images or if the content is too “sensitive,” but here’s a sample:

March 8, 2000

Pushing petals in the snow

Flowing waters whilst I go

In whose heart I barely tread

This I know I must be led.

To the point of my dismay

After which down I lay

On to heaven I will soar

Seeking justice ever more.

For the truth is hard to see

But it’s she that beckons me

Only I will rejoice for it

After which I’ll wearily sit.

Kindness grabs at my right hand

Scratching figures in the sand

Dismay will catch me this I know

But truth from heart will surely flow.

Kindness dupes the ones who hide

Pushing forth those who lied

Send me on to those poor souls

Drop me down through heaven’s holes.

Catch me now for I do sink

Buffeting winds force me to think

Cautious watchdogs we sit back

Waiting waiting for the attack

All I know and this I pray

Wonder will come to me this day

Hoping hoping for all to rise

Struggling not from those despised.

So, this I tell you as we sit

Truth unravels bit by bit

Push ahead and trounce the wall

Waiting waiting we heed the call.

I am Christopher hear me out

I’m a gentle soul and not a lout

Embrace me with your arm so tight

And hold me close with all your might.

And when I hide, you beckon me

You cannot wait and let me be.

You call me forth and make me talk

From your request I cannot walk.

But treat me kindly this you shall

And I’ll remain your sainted pal.

Kindness works of this I know

So step along and forward we go.

I bid adieu to you and yours

And go ahead and do your chores

I will work on what you ask

Preparing for the tedious task.

I won’t leave you don’t worry now

In your honor, this I vow

We’ll step ahead and get to know

From our hearts, knowledge will flow.

The rest of the poem I will omit due to the sensitive content and triggering images. Christopher, who is an older and wise “part” of me, writes the poem. I’m sure it’s not written by the “traditional me,” because I don’t use words like “whilst.” He understands that I want to know what happened to me (the trauma to make me DID). It seems he has help writing the poem. In the section I cut out, he gives me some of the information.

The final two stanzas are:

She is strong she knows such sorrow

From other moons some souls she’ll borrow

We came forth to walk the road

The seeds we planted, never sowed.

I will end this sad sad tale

Sometime soon, we’ll need to wail

But til then we’ll suffer strong

And peace I know will come along.

Blog written by Judi