Category: Therapy



This is what working with ‘alters’ gets you . . . memories of things you knew and had never forgotten, just lost in the shuffle somewhere.  Since this one belongs to the small child, we have placed it here: in the Small’s journal, where such things belong . . .
and so we begin our tale.)

Elephant Ears

Whenever I’ve done my laundry, I’ve seen them sticking out – those pants with the inverted pockets, hanging white outside.

“Elephant ears.”

The phrase would whisper in my ears – my mental ones for inside; the ones tuned to those ‘voices’ that talk to me all the time.

“Elephant ears.”  And there would be a small child’s amusement; a lightening in my mind; a recognition of something for which I had no clue.  Just that phrase ‘elephant ears’.   And a sense of giggles.

A ‘good’ kind of thing; a good kind of feeling – not one I’d bothered probing into. After all: “who” cares? It was not bothering me.  Heck, I didn’t even know what ‘they’ were referring to. It was just some private joke to some of my insiders.  All I knew was that whenever I’d see a pair of pants or shorts with the pockets inverted, I’d think “elephant ears”.

Not a problem.  As a matter of fact, it felt rather good – kind of like when you see an old treasured toy from your childhood that you had forgotten that you had – that little sense of joy shared by the child in you.

But not anymore.  Now I know what “elephant ears” stands for.

Today as I was grabbing some jeans I noticed the pockets were hanging out.

“Elephant ears.” The giggling came to mind.  Now I’ve been busy working with my alters, trying to sort things out.  Trying to find the missing pieces, missing time, missing emotions, missing things.  And it’s real important to a DID person to know where those voices are coming from: who is talking, why, what they are referring to – and the emotions that you feel.

So hearing ‘elephant ears’ I began inquiring. I knew it was a childhood self; I could tell by the ‘feel’.  Perhaps it’s a particularly DID thing: that ability to “feel” like a small child – and I mean really ‘feel’ it, setting your adult parts aside – and experience that innocent laughter, that ‘feeling’. It is exactly the same feeling (or set of feelings) that one would have as a small child. Yeah, I can ‘dip’ into them, sampling of my ‘crew’ – and see and feel who is saying and feeling what, what’s up with this inner ‘you’.  And that’s one of the wonderful things about being DID: being able to ‘feel’ – and in some ways BE – that child mind.

And it came to me: this was from a joke – a childhood one. One that had been played on me.

And I remembered the punchline.

It goes like this:

“Hey? Wanna see an elephant?” (the guy says. And we can ‘see’ him in our memory; he is quite tall; our nose comes even with his navel; he is standing in the sunshine on – perhaps those are overalls he is wearing – he is either an older teenager than *the One* (who molested me all the time) – or some other adult – we get the feeling almost that this is some guy in his 20’s.)

“Yeah!” we all say (are there more of these kids? I get the feeling this happened more than one time. But I think it was only one of us.  Meaning ‘me’ – meaning broken Michael with his broken mind at such a young age.)

“Okay!” he says, pulling his pockets out – inverting them as I had seen in the laundry so many times.  We lean forward, eager-er.  “Here’s his ears!”

And then pulling down his zipper his whips out his penis and holds it in his fork of fingers, says:

“And here’s the trunk!”

Uproarious laughter – yeah ‘we’ think it’s a funny; what a joke: Elephant ears and then the ‘trunk’ comes out . . .  except

something darker occurs.  Or occurred.

We’re pretty sure we went on to suck that elephant’s trunk. We’re pretty sure this was a MAN – (he was … ’21’ rings in our mind, meaning 20-something, since that is the age we associate with persons in their early twenties) – who molested us.

It was in the forest by the way … (we’re ‘remembering on the run’ here – just impressions in our mind) . . . and yes, there WAS some running, but it was just in play – perhaps part of the molestation ‘game’ (where he’d chase us or us chase him – either way the game of tag ended with the same thing: us “doing” him (orally not sodomity in the behind).

A funny thing happened on the way to the park, because

It was while we were on the way to the wife to show her this thing, this joke (yeah, we’re kinda inappropriate that way – but not in public) – that I remembered what was going on: this joke – I was going to see if she wanted to “see the Elephant” (for that’s what it was called: “seeing the Elephant” meant you went to suck the old man) – but I had forgotten the end of the story; where the sex comes in . . .

And that’s what comes with working with alters.
Sometimes such troubling friends.

But I love them anyway (small child – BIG hugs for him; brave child for reminding me; no, 13 ‘whispered’ in his ear telling him to remind ‘me‘ – since this was on my mind:

“Elephant Ears”.

A phrase from across the years; a phrase caught in time: and now I know the source of the thing. (But not who did it; not yet . . . his body: yes – but like a cutoff photo, it ends at his neck. Barefoot and all, though, which tells me something . . . we’ll see.)

This is called ‘progress’ for a DID mind.

13 Training


“People are taught.  Animals are TRAINED.”  This is a phrase that was told to me by a friend this last July after I kept referring to what I’d been ‘taught’ during my childhood as training.  I’ve come to realize: as a child abuse survivor, I was both taught and trained.

This is an excerpt from a personality I’ve been Trailing (meaning trying to ‘dig up’) – me being DID and all (dissociative identity disorder).  The “missing one” – the one on my report on my main blog, “A Song of Life“.  We are trying to recover . . . well, ‘missing memories’ – it’s not that we FORGOT – it’s just there’s this ‘part’ of us that has gone missing – and we are trying to recover him – for if a part of you is missing, you certainly cannot be whole.     (Written after we’d written what lays below.)

Enjoy.


We were both taught and trained. We were trained by the military by the time we were 13.  By then the training had fell off some.

no that is not right

we were trained until we were 14.  That was when we got back here, in the United States.

I remember that thing

We were trained a lot with the Army men.  They were kind to us most times.  Except for our Scoutmasters.  They were okay.  They were big men and they drunk beer.  You could get it out of the vending machine in the barracks come sundown.

we were out in the field.  This was when we were 13.  we spent a lot of time out there.  we spent it with the men, the actual G.I.’s.  eating rations and things.  I liked the cans.  I liked the fruit cocktaile most of all.  It was rather yummy with the cherries and things but there never were enough cherries.

I liked the silver bullets most of all.  They were made out of toffee chips and chocolate – hard waxy chocolate, but it was good stuff.  Good stuff to be eating.

They taught us lots of things, like getting into making deadfalls and all.  Those are when those logs come crashing down on you .  they are hard were hard to lift it took several of us boys in doing that.  They were hard; some of them boys were very mean hard boys made us do things we’d rather not do.  Like running through nettles and scuh.  in our bare shorts and stuff.  things to cause pain.

we learned about making puji stick traps when we were young; we were young Mikie’s age; that’s when we learned about those things and claymore mines.  Those and shooting thse handgrenade things

We wanted to ride in tanks lots of times but only got to go in some of the times for a ride and all.  It was hard; you got bounced around a lot and there were all those metal and things.  It could hurt you if you were not strapped down.  And the apc’s and things were cool; those were where we met the colonel sometims and we were supposed to give him information about what the other side was doing only we lied a lot and got him into trouble.  We told him where to go and then he went and we told him again where they are and he went in to charge them and only ended up charging his own dam self ha ha and LOL,  Shot up a bunch of his own tanks that time.  Three of us were into doing it three of us children in all though sometimes there were five of them.

We used to go into the underground bunker left by the Germans by the end of WWII; this was on the Fleigerhorst Kaserern which was where the german army had left something.  they had left this area of underground bunkers – it was seven levels deep and some of them were filled with water and airplanes and things and they (the army, our army) had built an airfield on the top of this thing, only they knew, so the germans used to do it like this:

When the American bombers would fly in the Germans would flood their airbase with some water, so it looked like a lake.  Then they would drain it and tada!  It became an airfield with all those bombers and fighters beneath, which would come out and go after them.  come the end of the war, they closed those levels (some of them) and flooded them out.  Nobody could figure out where the water was coming from, so the Army just left them alone.  They are still there, to this day, flooded, with airplanes sitting in them.  But the thing is the Germans thought they were coming back, and so they left some of those rooms open.  And that’s where the Army came in.

We were a member of the Scouts; only it was like a platoon.  We had two G.I.’s overseeing us, and we went on a lot of ‘missions’.  Some of them were good; some of them were so-so (yawning and things).  But we were there.

We got used sometimes; us kids and our bicycles.  Using us to go from here to there.  Setting up traps and things.  Observing enemy equations.  Making judgements and things.  Deciding what to do; how to set up …

then there was the nighttime when we’d go on the prowl, me and my guys and I.  This means some others as well; two of my friends.  we’d go down to the ammo dump where they’d kill ya for just looking on – much less breaking in and stealing ammunition like we were doing – sneaking a rack of belts out; stripping some threads ….

we did a lot of things like that under the cover of darkness.

it’s surprising how often an adult will forgive a little kid for doing something an adult would NEVER do and we got off on that many a time.

making strangers of friends and friends in strangers proved a wonderful thing.  It proved we could control who we are.

we got off on lots of times lying to the commanders; fooling around.  we got in trouble and things

we did a lot of dangerous stunts, messing with explosives and things

this was all by the time we were 13 and things.

it made us who we are

hooray army sometimes

they made an honest soldier outta me.  (LOL’ing and giggling going on right here ..

(breif sidenote we have just been ‘zoning’ as best we can … figuring if we can damp all the basic personalities we can get on thinggs this one – if no one is left, then only the ‘missing’ will be there …. been working on this one called “13” (or Jeremy if you prefer) – so forgive my efforts . . . lol, pulling out of ‘the zone’, noting that I felt some severe anxiety and/or fear when I hit one subject (deleted, unfortunately – something about ‘digging too deep’ – into something – hit a real big fear level in this child of mine – this 13 year old…. 

So forgive us our online therapy.  Sometimes by zoning out and losing control – we can find some things.  Like our missing persons report right there . . . on our other blog.

Until later (headache and all)
Jeff & Friends


It’s hard to describe the roundhouse effects of Child Rejected One, Child Rejected Two, and Child Betrayed.  A ‘one-two-three’ punch to the child he’d loved and the child who had loved him (meaning our pedophile friend and our little one, Mikie).

Some of it I suppose was due to age.  Little Mikie had taken on some years; quite in the same way a hungry person will put on weight.  Not physically: Mikie was a trim and fit kid; able to run fast, play hard, tanned and muscular beneath a Southern humid sun.  But he’d already changed . . . big for his age; his shoulders broadened; by the time he was ten or so the other kids wouldn’t take him on – even the teenagers pretty much left him alone.

But in that ‘getting bigger’ perhaps was another clue: he’d ‘outgrown’ that teenager friend of his – or perhaps the teenager had outgrown him.  Who knows?  We haven’t got a clue.

But on the other hand . . . the teenager was covertly scheming to have us coerce and coax that little kid over … the one from another next door.  That sand blond kid; thin and with freckles – a giggly tough but kind hearted kind of kid – was only five years old.  About the same age I was when the teenager started doing me.  (Only I was about a little bit older; maybe six or seven years old.  But so innocent in all so many other ways … but not unfamiliar with terror and pain.)

So maybe it was the innocence that ‘caught him’.

All I know is what he did to me.

That first betrayal: that shoving aside … all had taken place (I think) in the period of about one year (amazing, come to think of it now: how those three events can stand out so strongly like that; they were affecting me and mine so much both then as well as now).

But examining it from the child’s side:

Mikie’s father was gone.  The closest thing he had to a father . . . who knows?  There were several men: the one next door (a massive man, good humored besides) and his side-kick (a gruff old man chewing a cigar and reclining on his sofa out in the heat of the yard).  The one across the street?  (His wife was a ‘momma’ of sorts to all of us) . . .

It takes a village to raise a kid, and we certainly did: that neighborhood was like a village all unto itself – safe from the law and violence (for the most part; what happened in stayed in; what happened out – stayed out, but came in sometimes nevertheless…)  Everyone’s ‘momma’ was the momma (with the notable exception of a few) – and everyone’s daddy to be obeyed (even the drunk ones; or the ones that made no sense).

It was the rule of the law; the lay of the land . . .

and the teenager was included within.

Only he was some kind of ‘demi-god’ – middle management, if you prefer.  Falling under control of the grownups; only slightly less in the eyes of some kids – he was the ‘demi-god’ – one of several, to be sure – but he was MY demi-god and I loved him – strong and clear and clear.

And then he threw me away; threw me aside; favoring someone ‘better’ – or at least unknown – younger looking; younger acting – more naive in his innocence; more round eyed; doe eyed . . . than me.  Perhaps that was it.  I don’t know.  All I know is he rejected me … then abused me some more.  (The twisting emotion; a sickening pain .. the one of some love betrayed.  Bitterness; anger in this thing; the betraying of emotions.)

And then love died (I’m thinking to myself; wondering what all had gone on).

We can feel that in ourselves; that love softly dying…

only it wasn’t softly at all; it was off of that first moment; when the teenager betrayed him; announcing to the crowd:

“Mikie really loves sucking some dick.”  and then the neighbors laughed.

Cruelly, mockingly; just as the teenager did that night in the tent (and some … I don’t know what, but we wanted to say “some more”.  Perhaps he mocked us again later on; I don’t know – but I feel a real deep hurt; a screaming that it did and I see my friend and he – Mikie my own kid….I think we both got insulted some of the time which is why we were so tightly bound together – B., my best friend back then.  With the handsome eyes (wide spread); curling sand brown locks on his head … he was a cute kid looking back in time; here and he and I.)

(sighing again … this pain is so hard; Mikie loved B., the teenager’s younger brother – Mikie’s own age – as such a friend…)

Both of there at the beginning; but not so much the teenager at the end.

This is going to be a long post I see.  We’re already over 800 words (the ‘proper amount’ for a ‘commercial blog’ – but this is not some commercial we’re producing.  It is I and my friends … and there’s a lot going on … a lifetime we’re trying to recover…so be patient with me dear Reader and friend … while we ramble on.)

A hatred of love … I think that’s where it began.  The seed was planted in little Mikie’s heart.  It would take more, of course – uprooted, rejected again.  Losses overseas.  But eventually it became such a thing – a source of all his pain.  Love, then lost; love and lost again.  Giving it another try – and violently yanked from its source.  Again and again this sort of thing happened – loving and losing again.

By the time we were 13, I (Matthew) was done with it.  And so (I reckon) was Mikie.   Or at least he ‘retreated’ – went inside – leaving me alone to run the farm.  Hoeing those long rows of pain; trying to undo what had been done (that’s M3 talking right there) – but for ME??  Matthew??

I couldn’t do it again.  Not for him; and not for Mikie.

Not even for myself.

And that’s when the wall began.  The inner ‘walls’ sealing ‘him’ (Mikie) inside – the ‘outer walls’ against the world.

We had been betrayed by love – for we HAD loved; DID love – and got a kick in the face (a dick in the face); and something rammed up our ass.  It resembled a bootprint for sure – but it hurt much more; going deep within . . .

just like that teenager friend.

I wish I could go ‘aaaarrrrgggghhh!!!!’ with a cry of anguish; but I can’t; I hold it in.  It wouldn’t do no good.  I know; we’ve tried it before..

When the pain gets so bad the cutting begins … we’re drinkin’ a beer, numbing my friend; and my being Mikie (so we can’t hear his whimpering … tho’ in my mind I AM trying to hold him close … but it’s like hugging a cactus; each spike brings us pain – those spikes of loves lost, betrayed – over and over again.

I wish I could get over this thing (we wish we all could heal.)  On this one thing if no other . . .
one day maybe we will….

(sighing)

We cannot even begin to scrape the surface of the damage that he’s had; Mikie and our friend (Matthew is in mind).

Those two; most precious to our hearts.
perhaps that’s where the pain began…
deep in our hearts with parents who … while taking care of us … beat us and hurt us all.

Screwing us up forever in relationships ….
driving us to these things
looking for love in the wrong places
darkening our angel’s wings…


Our first grade teacher had problems with us … Mikie, I mean.  For we were born in Germany – and she was a German ‘fanatic’ – meaning she hated anything ‘german’ – and she used to call me a little Nazi in class sometimes . . . I can only guess that she had lost somebody during the war – though this was in the mid-to-late 60’s, so I’m not sure.

I remember her talking to the class – looking around – and saying:
“Any one of you can grow up one day to be President.  Except (here she’d point a finger at me, singling me out from the crowd) – YOU, you little Nazi.”

I didn’t understand a word she said; hadn’t a clue.  I just knew I was being bad in some way … doing something wrong – just by being there.

That woman had some problems…

But … here’s something from Tokoni we wrote one time ….

An Artist Is Born

I guess the art gene just runs in my family like fingerpaint. My grandmother had it, my mom to a certain degree – and me. At least folks have always told me I’m an ‘artist’ – I have my own doubts. I do know that I’ve always loved doing visual art – painting, clay, sculpture – and seem to have a nifty knack at visualization. It’s served me well through my various careers – from ‘visualizing’ what was wrong with a vehicle (and being real good at it) – to envisioning factory designs, resource centers, cafeterias, landscaping – you name it. I guess I’m just a ‘visual’ person: I ‘see’ how quantum mechanics ‘works’, but can’t do the math; I ‘see’ how things interrelate, and I even ‘see’ those parts of me that the shrinks said were my ‘alter egos’. Go figure. Apparently it takes a creative child to develop DID (disassociative identity disorder) – and a creative child I was.

I got my first hint that I had some sort of talent in first grade – and like so many memories, it’s something I ‘see’ very well.

Us kids had gotten an art assignment – draw something. But not just draw something on anything with anything – this was special. The teacher handed out this beautiful robin’s egg blue poster board – glossy finish (I can ‘see’ it now, as well as me working on it!) – and told us to draw something. Better yet – they handed out chalk pastels, not the nubby old crayons us kids were so used to using. I recall how beautiful that blank piece of blue poster board looked to me – like a perfect sky, a perfect blue, a pure blue bluer than any blue I’d ever seen. And I was determined to do my best.

For some reason I decided to draw a cardinal perched on a limb. Why? I haven’t a clue. But – here again I can see what I drew – see my hands drawing it, coloring it in – and it turned out (surprisingly!) – looking just like what I’d intended: a brilliant red cardinal, it’s crest cocky, beak yellow, branch brown – all set against that blue, blue sky. I didn’t think much of it – I’d been drawing with crayons for awhile, and the pictures of ‘Bambi’ I’d put on my homework looked pretty much like deer – but I was satisfied with my work. And I didn’t ‘waste’ my paper like so many other kids did with scribbles and nonsense. That was a big no-no with our teacher: wasting anything.

Anyway, I guess my picture must of made an impression because the teacher went on and on about how well it was done – called my parents, told them, the other teachers as well. And since it was so good, she elected me to do a special assignment: cut out a tree to go on the classroom door, and then make leaves that she could put each student’s name on for the upcoming ‘open house’. I gladly went to work, cutting perfect branches, perfect leaves – busy busy me.

Later, though, it became a disastor.

Examining my work, the teacher became enraged.

“Look at this! Look at this! All the leaves are BROWN!” she ranted. “Look at all the PAPER you’ve wasted!” And with that she dragged me into the storeroom where there were rolls of heavy construction paper, and pointing to one, said:

“THIS is BROWN.”

Pointing to another, she said “THIS is GREEN!”

But I couldn’t see any difference. And she’d quiz me on the colors: “Which one is BROWN?” – and I’d hazard a guess, then “Which one is GREEN?” – and I’d guess again. And I seemed to just keep getting it wrong.

“YOU are an IDIOT!” she finally screamed in frustration. The open house was that night – not enough time, I guess, to redo all those leaves. “YOU are too LAZY to learn your colors!” And she ranted and raved at me – oh, I don’t know.

But after that I was a disgrace. I never got picked again to do another art project; and she’d just sniff at anything I did.

How in the hell you go from the pinnacle of success to the depths of failure – that quickly – was just too much for my young mind to understand. And after that . . . well, after that, I gave up on trying to be an artist for a few years (quite a few, actually) – and hid my drawings and sketches from everyone – knowing that no matter what, I was flawed in some mysterious way, that I could never be what I had my heart set on being: a really good artist, and one whose work people would find beauty in.

(But the fact is – we went on to become a moderately successful graphics artist … earning $25/hr just to sit on our ass … and many people have told us: “You are an Artist” . . . But to this day we still have trouble ‘buying it’ – or that anything we do is good.

And a final note: now that we are “fixed” – we DO see value in the things we did and do – and indeed, have taken up arts & crafts projects once again . . . and while sad for little Mikie and his ‘friends’ – we DO love him and encourage his imagination once again.

Hugs and smiles for all of you . . . me and thee and all 😀

This Was Mikie's Home for Many Years


*Warning: Potential ‘triggers’ for Fellow Survivors & Friends* 😦

I can’t blame a single adult in our childhood community for any of the sexual abuse that went on.  It was all (to the best of our knowledge) committed by the children . . . and the children’s ‘father’, if you want to label the one who ‘started’ the abuse that went on.

It was a Children’s Conspiracy; and One of Silence as well.

None of us children told.  Not one of us; not to the best of my knowledge.  Sure – the signs must have been there (remembering limping in; piss running down my leg from where the teenager had “peed in there”.  Why didn’t mamma suspect something was going on?)

No; we all knew it was ‘something bad’ and something ‘dark’ to be hidden and done in secret corners; this ‘secret’ thing we had.  Fucking each other in the ass; sucking one another dink-um.

And the teenager was at the beginning of the herd.

So was he innocent or guilty (as I am thinking some of the times)?

This guy had a hard life ahead; hell, he had a hard one at the time.  Thirteen years old and here he is working with his father – a mason – busting his ass all of the time.  Doing a “man’s” job and a man’s day’s labor for his dad – helping to support his own family … fucking his brother in the ass … doing his own little sister (she was several years younger than I) . . .

and so was it HIS fault in doing this sort of thing?

We aren’t really knowing; not really – and yet knowing THIS sort of sick and twisted thing: he was a part and product of his own environment;  just as WE are.  And WE could have been HIM – quite easily – for he was leading ALL of us children down that merry path – having sex with him and having it with some others . . .

I remember the times …

warm summer’s day … up in the treehouse … forty feet up in the air … just me and ‘him’ (the teenager’s little brother – and my best friend) … looking at porno magazines (they were just simple black and white sort of things; catalogues I’m thinking; but enough – moving on) … and then I ask him (bored with my own pictures) to pull his pants on down …

Him and me staring at the house.  (this is why we didn’t get caught for so long; meaning NEVER).  He’s in the barn; so are we and we’re staring over the door at the house (his own one) further on …. and I’m fucking him in the ass …

so anyone who is looking will just see two little boys (dirty brown faces) peering at them over the shed’s half-door….

Staring at the house again (only this is a different one).  He (Someone else; another friend) …. is behind me on his knees … doing ‘things’ … I’m leaning on the rough concrete; elbows down; face staring; watching the windows of the house (his momma’s in there) … while he ‘has his fun’ …. waiting for my turn to come.

The grownups never KNEW ANYTHING . . .

The closest I ever got caught was in a doghouse during a great storm…my dad came out and caught us two (me and another friend) … engaged in some intimate action.  But we had saw him coming and ducked and pulled and getting our clothes on as those feet came on closer …. hearts panicking and pulsing and mouth numb from sucking … quitting and getting our clothes on ..

“What are you doing in there?!”  is all he said.
“Nothing,” was the cure.
He never asked again.

Why mom never caught on to those drawings we did … the ones of little kids fucking one another in the ass …. it was right THERE for her to see!  And yet what did she do with it?  She folded it up and put it in with our toys ….

Don’t you think a parent should think something is ‘wrong with it’ when her 8 year old kid tells the neighbor kid’s oldest daughter that he knows what her ‘thing’ looks like – and then ‘shows her’ with his hands?

Instead we got the ‘sex education talk’.  At 8 years old.  We were very much interested in all the mechanics of this thing.  Brother was not so much interested as he was into being disgusted.

He didn’t make very much as a sexually molested kid.  He wasn’t ‘into it’ like I was – really into this thing.

How GOOD it felt … not the “lovin’ ” so much as the other … feeling warm hands on my back; stroking my head; soft murmurs and things; ENCOURAGEMENT … not warning words; not them hateful glances my momma was giving me and things ….

It’s no wonder we kids kept things so silent.

It was the only way we hid.

Me and Little Mikie


That’s how little Mikie feels . . . picking words out of our heads.

He’s felt that way for a long long time – we know, we’ve used those words before:

“A Used Condom”.

That’s how he feels (and felt) after this thing; the “Rape of Little Mikie” combined with “A Groomed Child Rejected: Part Two“.

We’ve had that feeling since we were 17 or so; definitely by the age of 21; or 24; 26.

I guess we’ve had that feeling all along; ever since that thing happened (the rejection).

And then “The Groomed Child Betrayed” – something yet to be ‘published’.

I know a lot of women (and men, tho’ we aren’t allowed to admit this thing) know what it feels like to be used – a used condom in the making.

They call it ‘rape’ but we went along (sad fact to say but it is there – and we truly and really did not know any better.  Had we known we would have never gone along or gotten along with it.)

But it’s sad.

Imagine an 8 or 9 year old child experiencing this thing: the sensation of being a used condom.  Something to hold another man’s sperm; nothing else anymore: just a THING – something sickened for someone else’s pleasure.

And that was a man and that was a child and look what he’s done to him.  Us selves included sometimes (hurting him; hiding him inside – hiding him from ourselves sometimes (see the Ice World thing.)

Matthew is one who is especially good at that thing.  He hid the child from us for 14 years.  Or so.  Or so he thought.  Or so …. something.  He had come to hate him: this ‘feeling thing’ – and all feeling besides (besides rage and depression that is.  And loneliness, too: he felt that kind of thing.  Still does.  Waiting on some man lover to come and save him, I’m reckoning; guessing, not knowing / don’t knowing that thing.  Knowing he tried with his uncle sometimes (that didn’t work out good.)  Knowing he tried with others and failed.  Knowing he failed all the time (while keeping us alive – good work, Matthew – even if you almost died doing that sort of thing – and killing US beside you).  Yeah, there’s bitterness in those tears, even if we’re not allowed to shed them (another Matthew kinda thing there, folks.  See his views on women and emotion; published just today.)

We (he?) hates this thing; all kinds of things (yeah, it’s him.)  Confusing to us sometimes (not him; the emotions) – for he was once a “Controller” – able to take control of our emotions and things (including some of our own actions) – making them ‘his’ to control – which means he has a lotta swing and power in his grasp (even if I am 53 years old.)  A teenager self run rampant over the ramparts; lord of the castle kinda thing.

An empty castle I’m sorta expecting /suspecting; this kinda sorta thing.

And we’re hating it while trying not to hate HIM for creating it … embracing him in our own mind (while he throws OFF our embraces; not wanting any sort of thing .. to do with love and emotions; something which he had once denied when we were 13-1/2; especially and specifically to DO this sort of thing: cutting off ALL emotions and feelings deep inside of him.

And it worked well, this thing … almost for 17 years (?).

Until we met this woman and her family …

no, it started before this thing..

another woman and HER family

and then it all went wrong (not her fault, MINE (M3) for feeling this thing: that we should have a family of our own)

and so it went well until this wife and thing cut us off from the family that had bound us / bind us to this thing called “loving one another” meaning loving someone else kinda thing.

women.  You just can’t trust ’em.  We’ve learned that lesson well – that one taking us over and under things – into a living hell.

oh well.

Can’t trust ’em (Matthew speaking there.  He’s had a lot of control over the last few days.  Wife’s fault, he’s saying.  Surely she is (the one at fault) for her ‘making us there’ – meaning something, I don’t know what.  Letting him type a bit between the words . . . because we’re hurting . . . .

and little Mikie is feeling like a used condom again.

Too sad for words.  (but can’t say them: see that “not feeling” thing again”.

If you can see how this all ties together – you are doing better than we can.

Just know: we are trying, and trying to love together.

sometimes it’s just hard.

Signing off:

Mikie and Friends.

Vicks


Vicks
(Tokoni 06/05/2009)


When I was a kid and would get a cold my mom would apply Vick’s Vapo-Rub on my chest, plus a little dab under my nose to help ease the congestion. I’d been born (and nearly died) of bronchitis, so I guess it would get pretty bad sometimes. And I – I loved the smell of menthol; how it would clear my nose and warm my chest at night when I’d get all stuffed up and couldn’t breath worth a darn.

One night I was having an exceptionally hard time, and couldn’t hardly breath at all. The flu, a cold – I don’t know which, but as a child I knew what to do. Call mom, who’d come in bearing that little blue bottle, rub some on my chest, put that dab under my nose, tuck me in and and I’d be better – or at least for awhile.

This particular night was different, though. Instead of my mom, my dad came in, the little blue bottle in his hand. And instead of pulling the blanket down and my pajama top up, he took one hand and squeezed my face like you would a dog, forcing my jaws wide open. Then taking a big old double fingered dip from the jar, he forced a huge wad of Vick’s down my throat; smeared it all inside of my mouth – shoving another dab and another dab, forcing his fingers down my throat, choking me with the now thick stench of menthol and the foul taste of petroleum jelly. He kept saying something; not growling so much as snarling, packing that damned stuff in, holding me down and pinning me with the covers so that I could not escape. I remember thrashing my head – and the taste! Burnt like fire, greasy, thick – have you ever ate petroleum jelly? Try a sample. Its sorta tasteless, sorta not – and coats your mouth like cold bacon grease, only worse. Now try a bit of Vicks. Burns like fire, you can’t swallow it – it sticks to your tongue and teeth and gums – and . . . well, trust me. You’d have to try it to know. Just a dab. Now imagine a couple huge wads – a half jar full – crammed down your throat. Not good, huh?

After that – when I’d get congested – I’d still have my mom put some of that stuff on my chest; that little dab under my nose. But once I got to bed, I’d be quiet – real quiet – no matter how bad it got. I’d learned my lesson.

I still love the smell of menthol; it’s ‘good stuff’ for congestion. But petroleum jelly – to this day I can’t see a jar without remembering what he did, and to this day I still don’t know why. Maybe he was ignorant, didn’t know the stuff wasn’t meant to be eaten. Maybe I’d just whined one time too many. Maybe this, maybe that – I will never know. But I know I’ll never forget the sensation of him jabbing his fingers down my throat, choking me with that stuff, or how careful I was to be quiet after that night.

And yet – when he calls and invites me to lunch – and I turn him down (always, it seems) – I feel guilty.

Why is that?

Child abuse.

It really sucks.

Its the gift that just keeps giving (sigh).

But hope!  For we have healed and are healing . . . more in each and every day. 8^)

Me and Little Mikie in His New Home: An Island paradise


CAUTION: TRIGGERS!!

Preamble:  Day 2 of “this stuff”.  LO bitter L’ing.  Got interrupted during processing; just like the old psychologist’s office.  The Shrink’s office.  The counseler’s office.  And a few other ones.  You know the deal:  One hour session – get you ‘ramped up’ – and then ‘ding!’ (alarm goes off) – “It’s time to go!  I have another client coming in!”  And there you are all F’d up within yourself (and out, too) – stumbling out the door in a haze, zoned to the max, and switching all over the place while the attendant says, “Same time tomorrow?” meaning “This same time next week or so?” and here you are needing immediate treatment and finding none (really, really could use that old bottle – used to keep one of Everclear in my own car – for use after those afternoon sessions, LO bitter L’ing again by me and my own alters.  Note how many times I didn’t use “I” up above; that’s because we are preferring it that way; easier to ‘hide’ them alters of mine and their and ours … lying not through admission; but omission instead.)

Here’s another thing that grieves me before we go into this thing: The Rape of A Child; my own, my inner child, the one we are calling Mikie (which, BTW, IS his real name in many senses of the word!)

Can’t tell no one.  Not about what happened yesterday, Confronting Father.  Not that I don’t WANT to – this is something we’ve been burning to tell the wifie thing ever since we first met her tomorrow (meaning yesterday?) afternoon.  Yeah; things are a kinda bit crazy; time-slipping a little bit here and there between us old alters; crazy ain’t the word??

WE didn’t intend on telling “no one”; that is, we never intended on confronting the Father one yesterday; that was totally unplanned!  He just came over at a bad time for us (when we were trying to processing and make peace within ourselves about this thing called Mikie and the things that happened to him

Damn.  Suddenly very sad; we called him a “thing”, and that’s hurting the little one called Mikie: WE ARE SORRY SON!  (crap crap crap; things going wild.  LO soft but not so bitter L’ing again.  We are sorry little one; we didn’t mean to hurt you with them words; really son.)

BUT what this means is that we are not done processing the events below.  That said, we are done ‘for the day’ (not meaning for the day; just putting aside this particular issue for a tad in time.)

And the reason we can’t tell the wifie thing is this plain and simple: she doesn’t have time for us.  Not right now.  And by the time she does …. crap.  We’re hoping we don’t cut ourself; that something doesn’t go wrong.  And get this: it’s gonna be maybe Tuesday?  Perhaps sooner?  Depending upon her schedule . . . maybe she’ll have some time for us.  I don’t know.

F’ing wifie thing.  It ain’t her fault; she doesn’t know what’s going on and she’s unwilling to make time to find out.  You know: life and things.  Husband falls to the way behind; trailing along behind her like some kinda dog that needs to take a crap on the floor – and she won’t let him.  (LO somewhat bitter L’ing; that is like SOOO freakin’ appropriate an expression; the dog and kind of thing.)

Okay, lets get going; what you’ve been waiting for.

The Rape of Mikie, my Inner Child and Most Precious One (okay, maybe not most precious?  For in and of ourselves, all of us are precious?  But he is a Special One, if you are getting my meaning here ….)

_________________________________________________________________________________

He is my best friend

He is in my house

He has come over to do some watching for me

He is supposed to be watching over us

He is doing something wrong with the dog

and my brother is crying (in me? Near me.)

Here’s the deal; we are not in a good place right now okay and so don’t expect no fucking forgiveness.

He came over at the insistence of my mother and my father

He has come over while them are going to the movie

It is dark in the house but not some; it is light; there is a light in there some of the lights are on

We begin running around

okay, here’s the deal

He’s come over he’s not my best friend but hes’ my best friends only brother. He is older than him; we are thinking I am 6 and he is 13

My parents said “Watch over them he (mikie) is the bad one you gotta watch over him closely” now they are turning to me and my brother and they are saying

“You’d better do the things he does (tells me?) to do.” We aren’t given the opportunity to say yes mum no mum just be doing what we are told; you are supposed to be doing what you are told no matter what happens do as you are told no matter if he’s killin him do as you’re fucking told now ou damned little kid.

And we were never never NEVER fucking allowed no; no to anything at all ever again in our lives; we gotta do as we’ve been told.

Not doing what you are told is a BAD thing; doing what you are told keeps them outta trouble

No “no’s” allowed in here; in this thing; not never not to no one

Especially and authority figure who has been placed over us this being this teenaged kid

this friend of ours

and he is in there babysitting

and we are funning around (I wanted to type running ardound but it keesp on coming ‘funning’ LL not such a funning thing)

We are running around and around iin the household when he starts doing this thing

and it starts with Charlie our friend and this dog.

Charlies our firend and he’s my/our doggie sometimes tho’ he belongs to momma most times and we aer sad for him cuz he went and died without us bein around

how hard is that to die somewhere becauz you family hasn’t been around

He got died running after some truck someone else was taking care of him and he was our dog and my dog.

He was a big dog and too he was black and furry with this kinda long and short curly hair he was a nice dog and a good dog and he follered us around sometime and he played football with us kds and he would steal the ball and then go running and we love our poor and lost lonely dog

But thats not what happened then and this time.

This time he got it for real

The teenager is bending over him and they are doing something to him this teenager friend and my dog; he is doiong it TO him, doing something to my own dog

and it is in the hall way and (pause …. long pause …. Mikie is reluctant to go on go on Mikie you can do this things we are all here and we are feeling sorry for you all but the religious man even Matthew is feeling sick and sorry for you not sick at you but what at this teenagers done)

okay

so I go on?

(yes mikied my friend my son my dear and loving son go on we are standing right here behind you recording this as this goes on; go on my friend talk to me.)

fucking shit (little mikie is saying he has the own words in and outta my head. This is making Matthew angry that Mikie can do this sort of thing; get into his own head: perhaps that is why Matthew sealed him off so long time ago? Back in the 84’s? Yup I reckon so he is saying turning to me and the crowd and things and he is firm but hard and sorry he’s done this sort of thing but he had to to seal off this kind of pain and embarrassment)

Okay mikie go on. The dog. The teenager is doing something outta(?) him?

Okay (mikie goes on; he and I and us are taking in a deep breath on this ugly fucking thing)

Go on.

Mikie go on. (he is standing head down staring at the thing we know and we could tell but HE must tell this thing otherwise its gonna be no good.)

“He is fucking the dog.” he is saying but that’s not quite right; the teenager is masturbating on the dog meaning he is jacking the fucking dog off; there, I said it for you Mikie, you can go on now can’t you?

Yeah sure (he says hard and firm; he’s a tough kid looking up at me with firm and angry sorta eyes but they are tearfilled in his own way instead)

He has us go down on the dog; meaning this:

my brother is in the corner crying. He is crying real bad. And then this thing he has happens

The doggies laying on his back and the teenager is sorta jacking him; doing something with his penis; he is stroking it back and forth and this big pink thing comes outta him with two red balls attached to him and then he has me go donw on him

and it tastes yuck yuck kinda nasty firm but yielding and there’s some shit shooting out of him into my mouth and things and it tastes yuckfuckingyuckyuckand I”m doing this thing I’m sucking off the dog and thigns and I kinda like it because I’m doing it for him this teenager friend of mine and he asked and I cannot say no cannot bend the rules; gotta do this thing for him and it tastes kinda nasty and Im’ using my teeth the way he showed me not to (later on sometimes) and scraping the dogs dick and the penis and the dog is knda crying and I am too sorta but not; crying cuz it tastes kinda bad and this thing is hiiting in the back of my throat and things and it hurts real bad but I wanna pleas him this teeanger and things.

And I look up and the teengare is fuking smiling at me saying go on go on go on and do it and it’s like he’s kinda mad but he’s not he’s kinda smiling and my brother is in the corner and he’s screaming ‘you’re hurting him your hurting him over and over again while he’s crying all balled up and things and how does he know his fuckin eyes and midn are closed a lot like min is right now

and I think I’m gonna be sick; we can feel this thing ;a deep down fucking nausea at whats going on; physcial sensations include just like when I was fucking cutting; burning sharp skin pains on waist and belly its like the dog is fucking clawing me (this is NOW realtimeing and folks; it’s for real feels like I’ve taken a razor knife to my own skin and is cutting it RIGHT f’ing NOW)

moving on. Mikie

Tell me some more. Tell the nice audience some more; they aren’t gonna be hurting you or nothing; they are friendly and people and they’re gonna be okay (okay people out there? Hang this up hang on the phone and fucking hang it up if it’s bother you nothing triggers someone more than this kinda shit I’m knowing; don’t want you out there getting hurt or nuthing)

Okay mikie, move on. You are sucking this dog thing and then what happens; comeon you can tell us (he is crying inside but we are … zoned – can’t cry a single tear for him; this is his ownprocess and we’re gonna have to go through it sometime again; I can realize that kinda thing but move on.)

Okay.

The teenager he is saying stopping me and we look up and he’s got a big grin on his face and we’re wearing one too; we are happy we have served him; done him proud, make him kinda like us or something (he is my brother’s best friend) and my brother is not done crying he is kinda like laying there in the corner in the hallway moaning and some kinda shit; WE are the one hurting him we realize; WE have done this thing and it has hurt our own brother in this way somefuckinghow we don’t know when or how this has happened he didn’t suck the dog’s dick WE did and we’re not happy with him or it anyhow

but this friend of ours is saying something he’s saying ‘come on come on, do (this thing) to me!” and we are still on our knees (we were on our knees before bent over this dog thing and it SMELLS real fucking BAD kinda nauseous again)

and he’s saying ‘come on come one do it do it” and he has his dick hanging out and its an enormous thing it appears to us that way and were crawling over a few handsteps on our knees to him and he’s putting it in our moth and things and then he starts rocking back and forth real hard and then he’s saying something about teeth again making us curl our lips under and THAT hurts kinda bad and then we can taste something it’s blood in our mouth from doing this thing he’s pressing even harder and hurting our nose and shit and down pressing and our teeth are cutting lips and tongue our lip our tongue

and he says stopping

‘come on lets go to your room’

and then we’re going I”m standing up to him and we’re going down the hallway and into the dark room leaving my crying brother far behind him is with the dog and things and we are feelin g kinda sick again

and we go into my room and he doesn’t even turn the light on I though we were gonna try playing some games and things; doing something fun but no he is having me get on the bed right there beside him no he isn’t on the bed; it’s next to him and its our bed as well.

And we’re getting on the thing and laying down he has us laying down on our belly and things and then he kinda takes our pants off only its not pants its those shorts momma makes me where – the cutoffs and things we are so poor we haven’t hardly go any clothing so we must wear this thing all the time all of the kids in the hood do; the fuckin hood is a poor kinda place really fucking poor

and he’s saying something about how he kinda loves me??? and then hes’ sticking a finger in my ass and it kinda hurts and something then he’s fucking on top of me squashing me so HARD breath runs outta me like kinda like the air from the dryer vent and THEN he’s doing something else to me way down there and hes sticking it in and it hurts like fuckin HELL and then its over but no its not over yet because hes starting to do this kinda thing kinda like him and the dog; yeah to me and it kinda feels kinda good and then he sticks his dick in and then THAT hurts real fucking bad and he’s goin in and out and bouncing on me but it feels kinda good after awhile no not the butt kinda thing but him kinda pressing up against me I kinda like this thing of feeling his skin on my back kinda thing kinda feels nice sometimes but it HURTS so fuckin bad down in there even my belly is hurting so bad he’s got in in so fuckin deep or something and it hurts and I’m cryin but not tryin to show him

and then hes’ done and he’s rolling off the top of me and saying

“You wanna play?”

and we go and run

having fun again

and my bottom is hurting real kinda bad

and I’m not gonna be telling my parents and things because ITS REAL BAD and it kinda hurts down there and THEY might wanna come take a look at thing and THEN i’d have to tell them about the dog and THATS a BAD FUCKING THING we know that now we know that then we knew it all kinds of times.

Blackmail, that’s what I’m thinking (Putting Mikie away; poor kid; he’s had a hard time of it today and in the past 24 hours or so: the system pressuring him. But not “completely away”. We’re going to be needing him for the psychoanalysis type of thing. You know what I mean. Right now Aoela is taking care of him (old friend of mine; an ‘interior being’ which we discovered some time ago – about a month or so – and with whom we are involved in healing.)

So here’s the deal in a nutshell:

Mikies parents are going to the movies, and leave him and his brother with his teenage friend. The teenage friend is supposed to be ‘watching them’, with an emphasis on how ‘bad’ Mikie’s been.

They’ve also instructed their children to never say NO to ANYTHING anyone tells them (meaning someone older) – and certainly not to someone who has been appointed an authority figure over them

They have just appointed their teenage friend over “him”. He has now become the ‘authority figure’ – kind of like some kind of god.

And the teenager tells him to do this thing.

You see, they were running around playing – running around and around the house, happy and squealing like little kids do when playing a game of chase – and the teenager was the one chasing them.

Then the teenager does something (catches Mikie’s brother in the hallway? We don’t know about him; why he was crying so bad – BUT we do know he didn’t start crying until or during when the teenager started on the dog (damn, we KEEP on misspelling “dog’” as f’ing “god’ – Freudian slip or something? We dunno. LO softy and somewhat bitter L’ing.)

So… teenager rolls the dog on his back, and begins masturbating the dog; making the ‘pinky thing’ come out of him. While he’s doing that, Mikies brother comes walking up (we’re thinking; this event has almost a sense of unreality – zoned out I know; that’s why; its US and not him doing that thing: zoning) – sees what the teenager is doing, and perhaps misinterprets the thing coming out of that dog of his; slumps down in the corner of the hallway wall and floor and starts crying;

meanwhile Mikie is walking up and the teenager is saying “Watch this!” while jacking off the dog. Then (I reckon) something occurs to this teenager friend of ours, and he has Mikie start doing it – the jacking off kinda thing, and then the words come:

“Put your mouth on him” meaning on his (the dog’s) penis.

Mikie doesn’t know what to do (he’s never done this sort of thing before) and so he bends over – but really doesn’t know what to do.

The teenager shows him by pushing his head down, and inserting the dogs penis in his mouth.

And the dog begins ‘humping’ him (as if he wasn’t already) – right in the mouth.

Now I don’t know what you know about canine biology, but there’s a bone in there; so it kinda hurts him; the dogs penis is deeper than the boy’s mouth can go – so he ‘forces it in’ – so much so that it’s kind of gagging him (hence the vomiting reflex) – not to mention the awful fucking taste (yes, here years later, and I can still taste that damned thing in my mouth – fucking body memories – GO AWAY! LOL’ing, doubting that they ever will; they never will; we’re kinda knowing that sort of thing.)

Can I say this kind of thing is “awful” right now? Can you folks put up with me saying that (asking you readers; we are having a hard time going with the one word “awful” – it seems so much more than that to us.)

So here is little Mikie pumping away; the dog is ‘doing’ him while his teenager friend is standing there watching on and Mikie’s big brother (who is littler than him; therefore, you’ll often hear Mikie referring to him as his “little brother” sometims) – his brother is slumped down, curled into a fetal position (kinda – we can SEE and REMEMBER this thing like it is YESTERFUCKINGDAY! – never did ‘forget’ this one; just the dog thing kinda for a few years on back – recovered memory kinda process; the dog thing – but the REST of it we have remembered forever!)

And while this is going on his brother (Mikie’s own) is screaming and crying over and over again: “You’re hurting him!” Now whether he meant Mikie or the dog – we’re not knowing, and we’re not going to ask – for brother denies this thing; denies any kind of sexual thing ever went on between us – but it DID: we know it did, many a time: it’s our now grown brother’s way of protecting himself from his own emotions (he’s a lot like we were about 20 some odd years ago, only worse off.)

And then the teenager (getting bored I reckon, or wanting some of that kinda action for himself), looks at our little friend Mikie and says:

“Come on. Do me.”

And Mikie is fucking HAPPY to be doing it (kinda) cuz’ it means he ain’t doing the dog no more; he’s doing his friend – and his friend ‘kinda loves him’ (or at least he’s hoping so) – and by doing this thing he’s hoping to make his friend love him stronger – and so he does it anyway

and he’s just not doing it right at first (he’s never done this one before: giving blow jobs before) – and so the teenager instructs him to ‘curl his lips in’ (over his teeth, ya know) – “and kinda stick your tongue out” (padding the bottom of his penis) – while he ‘rubs it in” (meaning – well, you know these kinda things)

And the thing is the teenager starts pressing so hard that it’s cutting Mikie’s lips and gums; tearing at his tongue (he’ll wake up in the next morning with a cut completely across the bottom of his tongue and stuff)- and the teenager is just stroking it in, ya know what I mean? Just rockin’ back and forth with him in Mikie’s mouth – and Mikie’s kinda kneeling on the floor . . .

Goddamn. You should’ve seen Mikies face when the teenager looked down at him the FIRST time and told him to stop doing the thing with the dog and do him.

Mikie looked up at him with a fucking ANGEL’S face and this sick, weird kinda twisted smile on his young face -sooo fucking relieved that this dog thing was over and more than fuckin relieved to be ‘making love’ with his friend and not the dog anymore. (and yup; that’s kinda how he looks at this thing: the human on human sex kinda thing: as “makin’ love” – though he picked those own words outta OUR head (he has access to a lot of information) – However, back then it wasn’t called making love; it was called “sucking our cock” or “sucking his dick” and things. You know: normal kinda kid talking. (Later on it would be “corn holing” and “fucking”, meaning the anal kinda thing.)

Then his teenage friend gets tired (I reckon) of this going on, and abandoning Mikie’s brother in the hallway, takes Mikie on down to his room, has him lay in his bed – and kinda “rapes” him – right in the ass; the ol’ “boogerhole” (Mikie speaking, quite bitterly by now!)

And then the friend gets done, gets off of him, and goes away to play – inviting him along.

Mikie is so relieved that he does this thing: pulls his ‘pants’ (they are cut off blue jean shorts; all the kids had to wear back then; that and a thin set of underwear that his dad kept pulling off of him (shuddering) for different reasons in our livelihoods; but mostly just to beat him (belt on meat seems to satisfy the old man – beating and beating and beating and beating him until his asscheeks were bloody and bruised.) No wonder Mikie prefers this kind of abuse (the sexual thing). It hurts so much less (on the outside) – and he thinks it’s a kind of love (something his parents aren’t giving him) – and he’s not getting ‘beaten’ for doing it – unless he tells his mother (and then parents, for what he tells mom goes directly to dad for beating distributions, LO bitter L’ing going on.)

So then the kid was scared to tell anyone about the ‘dog thing’ – a form of blackmail in our mind; done by the teenager to ensure this kid’s silence in time – and for ALL time – which he very nearly did.

We told a psychiatrist this one once. And you know what she did?? She fucking LAUGHED – laughed in our faces while this went on … permanently damaging us again (we’re thinking). She thought it was FUNNY – but then again, she had some ‘cult’ thing going on; probing into our own past, looking for evidence of ‘cult kind of behaviors’ in our past – being was our mom is a witch, and the neighborhood we were growing up in … well, weird, but in a wonderful kinda way – not at all the way the psychiatrist was thinking – though we have some dark suspicions about the ‘cult kind of thing’ due to some other issues we had going on. If so, it wasn’t overtly obvious or nothing; perhaps we were being drugged, but I kinda doubt it. I’m thinking it was ‘just bad dreams’.

And so: Now begins the hard part: absolution. One by fucking alter by one.

Religious Man: sad, sore, but torn between forgiving him and condemning him.

F’ing religious Man: you are a CHRISTIAN (tho we are NOT) – you are supposed to be FORGIVING HIM.

RM: Hell no; he belongs in hell for what he did I”m not going to have anything to do with that little bastard of mine (this guy is my ‘dad’ figure in a lot of way).

ME: why NOT?

RM: cusz what he did.

Jeff: did he have any fuking choice in the matter, my friend? LOOK at him: just a little kid; doing what he did; because it was TAUGHT to him (you religious freak! Comeon, get WITH it – come ON guys; he’s just a GHOST in your mind; NOT the real thing; he’s a figment of your combined imaginations; get RID of him; he’s NOT one of your own souls; you ain’t gotta take him in.)

(sighing)

Okay, we’ll try; he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us hes’ not one of us he’s not one of us.. can’t get rid of him? Shutting him up and ignoring him will do just fine, though! (satisfied smile somewhat grimly as we shut the door on this ‘man’, this so-called ‘religious man’ who’s quite a freak himself – and an f’ing hypocrite! We don’t NEED him anymore; we’ve got our OWN kinda religion, and it IS NOT HIS: his only value is in remembering religious FACTS; not fictions; and in his own fictions – he cannot forgive the kid – just like my own dad done. Never forgiving us for ANYTHING.

There: got to the core root of THAT thing: religious man IS a representation of my own father figure who was never forgiving; just like that ‘momma figure’ we got rid of some time ago (converting her over to Aoela; a separate (yet somewhat troubled) woman being who we let take care of our inner child last night when things were going wrong; we are kind of trusting her with him now more and more these days: it’s not my momma; its some kind of other woman in my head; a ‘real one’ for all extants and purposes, tied into the core being.

Okay, next in line: Matthew.

How do YOU feel about him – Mikie, your own friend, and the child you were supposed to take care of (not THEN, but NOW, my friend – you weren’t even AROUND back then! You didn’t appear until 1971 or ’72 or so.)

Can you see it my friend (we are asking him; Jeffery is asking; love and compassion radiating out from him for all of my own survivor friends on the inside?)

See what Matthew is harshly demanding

See that what you did to him wasn’t fair – you’ve been mistreating him. He’s YOUR kid, goddamnit! (Jeffery can be quite a bit hard when he has to be: a fair thing and a good thing IOO (in our opinion; you folks better catch onto that one; we’re gonna use it next time without all this g-d explaining to do!)

YOU have been abusing him as well (Jeffery is saying;) all of them years you were together – you kept shoving him aside and burying him – all the while being lonely as hell and denying the love he felt for YOU inside YOU

(Matthew is crying a bit now; we aren’t’ just watchin; but ..hmm yeah, wet eyes; not tears; just soggy)

You see Matthew: you always had the love of him; this Mikie friend inside. In ways he was your own son – AND your own father, if you are thinking about this one: HE created you; YOU didn’t create yourself; and that MACHINE thing was your own doing and WE understand!! We ((okay going over to him: time to cry?? we are hoping hoping hoping!! stop typing give it a shot.)

stop to go on deck and do some REAL working with Matthew now okay going…time:1248hrs

1300hrs:

Jeff: Matthew is thinking about what we told him, which was THIS and in a way Matthew can understand:

“Mikie was a prisoner of WAR; just like a fuckin’ prisoner of WAR – and if YOU (matthew) was a prisoner of WAR (which is something Matthew trained for) – and your ‘captives’ (meaning wardens; meaning enemy) was to tell YOU to fucking go down on a fucking dog WOULDN’T YOU??” (and yes he shamefully admits he would rather than lose his own life and here’s the thing matthew my fine fucking friend no harm intended we love you too!)

MIKIE WASN’T GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY TO SAY NO! He was told and he’d been taught that to SAY that thing (the word “NO” to any of his parent or ANY of the authority figures in his lifetime) – “HE WOULD BE BEATEN!! and beaten and beaten and beaten again!!!! We KNOW that fucking thing because he was beaten BEFORE and as a small child (younger than 10 or 7 or 8 again; even further behind; back when he was a small child experimenting with the word “no” again and again like any fine young toddler will be doing sometimes –

and he was BEATEN with a fucking WARBELT you SOB (thinking of father; religious man again); yeah, YOU know that thing; we ALL know of that fucking thing; the belt with the HOOKS and things that hurt you some kinda bad

and that’s where one of the ‘breaking points’ came in, being BEATEN by that belt and seeing his own brother BEATEN in that bag of his (the old man’s laundry fucking bag rubberized thing smelling of army and men)

And to say NO this time would have gotten him BEATEN again; he knows in his own mind this kinda shit goes on; goes on all the TIME and on and on and on IN HIS OWN LIFETIME JUST A FUCKIN SERIES OF BEATINGS almost every day sometimes twice and 3X at a time during the day; beaten and beaten until he was fucking animal inside and fucking bloody without.

THAT’s the reason he didn’t tell: he was afraid of being BEATEN again; beaten into a young animal again; fracturing his young mind how DARE he tell how COULD he tell? He knew this was a bad fuckin thing; not just him and the dog but him and his friend and how DARE can you not LOVE him he needs your love and things MATTHEW my own man can’t you find it in your heart to forgive HIM???

You fucking understand; quit shaking your head in there; I can SEE you doing this thing you KNNOW I fucking can; come ON man; can’t you SEE it: you made him made you made HIM???/ Goddamn I’m almost crying now in goddmanfcking frustration can’t you SEE it, man???

Loving him; that’s what you are supposed to be doing; he was SAVING you by being him and hiding some of the time; hiding himself AWAY from you after him; creating you for his own peace of mind; trying to put some distance between us and his own pain and hiding then for such a long fucking time; poor kid my god can’t you fucking see this poor kid of mine?? he’s standing there crying awaiting you to come HOLD him Matthew; WE’re not going to be doing this thing YOU gotta do it this time (hardening the heart; don’t WANT to see my own f’ing kid crying like this so pitiful and sooo fucking sad sometimes can’t you HELP HIM OUT with this thing, Matthew?

Going on deck to resolve this thing. Time Out: 1310

____________________________________________________________________________

And it was at this point (about 1318) that the phone call came, and my dad said he was coming over. (sad sad sigh sigh and so f’ing mad in some ways that this process was interrupted and a ‘new one’ started – the confronting of the dad thing-a-fucking-jing)  IMPORTANT TO NOTE:  WE did NOT read the thing up above before posting; though I suppose we should.  It will tell us something in how much progress we’ve been making I am guessing wondering if I wrote something about that one (use of blog entries for ???)  Damn.  Like I said: Time slipping: other alters are doing things of which I am just barely, barely aware: like looking at someone’s actions through a fog.  (scratching my head wondering if it’s my arse racking my brains and someone else is hiding in their chuckling and things.  LO L’ing going on; soft or sad and perhaps the bitter one is my own?)

We’ll see in time.  It’s 0600 and we are (sick?  tired?  upsetting?) and switching all over all the time.

Promises to be another in “NOT a Good Day!”


Flying Saucers
(Tokoni, 04/28/2011)

When I was a kid, my mom would get really mad at us sometimes. I don’t know why, but it seemed that it would often happen in the kitchen. Or maybe it was just a coincidence – maybe I just remember the things that went on in the kitchen better. Or . . . well, I can sit here guessing all day. All I know is that it was, in a way, good training at “duck and dodge” for us kids – and perhaps a way for my mom to justify getting new dishware. After all, a woman gets tired of washing the same old dishes day in, day out after a time.

But these things would always start out the same – my brother and I on one side of the table, my mom in the kitchen area (we never really lived in a place with a formal dining room, so this makes sense.) Mom would be yelling about something we’d done or left undone – working herself into a feverish rage, screaming and shouting and calling us the names she so often used – one of her most popular was “you damn brats”. That one was so popular with me that a friend left from childhood (the only friend I know – and not a best friend anymore, but rather more of an acquaintance) – recalls her introducing me to anyone and everyone as “Here’s my son. Damn brat.” Oh well, I knew by the age of ten I was ‘bad’ and given to making many mistakes. I still struggle with that sometimes.

Anyway, after working herself into a frenzy, it would happen – and we always knew when it was going to happen, because the first thing she would do would be to yank open one of the kitchen cabinets. Then the rain would begin – a ceramic rain or dishes and saucers; glasses and cups – all headed across the table our way. And my brother and I, instead of running (I don’t know WHY we never just got the heck outta there!) – would dance and dodge, ducking and rising like so many shooting gallery ducks – listening to the dishes crash and tinkle against the wall behind us, getting showered in shards of glass and brittle pieces. You didn’t watch to see where the dish or saucer – or whatever – would hit after it passed by your shoulder – because you were too busy focusing on the next one, which would be flying through the air. Duck and dodge, duck and dodge – dancing all the way. I don’t know how it looked from her end of things – but for us it was sometimes more of a game than the punishment it was supposed to be, because we got really good at that. Ducking and dodging that is. (A skill that would come in useful a lot of times in other situations – but not here at home.)

I don’t recall ever being hit by one (but I’m sure we must of – how else would we of learned to dodge so well?) but I do recall what would happen after her rage subsided – or the dishes were all gone (I don’t know which). She’d storm around the table, look at the mess she had made, and then with a firm command, tell us to get busy cleaning ‘our mess’ up. And all those broken plates and things – I remember how there would be sprays of shards as the ceramic shattered on the wall, dancing quite carefully to keep your feet from getting cut – and then her handing us the broom and the dustpan, scolding us and warning us to get up every last bit. Because you didn’t want to leave a bit of it behind – nothing to remind her of her temper, or how she’d lost control.

And then, a few days later, a new set of dishes would appear. I don’t know what she told our dad; I somehow doubt she told him the truth – but my brother and I would glance at each other over our new plates and wonder: just how long will these new ones last?

Flying cups and saucers. No wonder my childhood was such fun!

(Now here’s the thing; come 5/3/2011: Yeah, and we are still finding it grimly humorous, a sense of darkening humor; one that almost (but not quite) … embroils a part of us in rage.  Who? …. the child feels not fear; but an angry frustrated and scared rage at his mother figure just then; that and a great sense of ‘unfairness!!’ screaming and crying in his mind (all of our own minds; he shares his thoughts; what a blessing – for he knows in the end he’s gonna have to clean this up; this crap has got to come to an end … a bitterly wishing child, sometimes wishing his life would end; age 8 then 10 then 12.)

And (we don’t trust this; we have issues with something called ‘recovered memories’ – because of something we’ll mention in our next post on this blog of our (feeling very sickened … very sickened; yes, nausea instead; both in mind and soul and body – just at the thought of the thing)… but there are dim flickers of being hit; and sometimes grazed in the head . . . or it might just be my imagination.  I’m thinking: we’ll never know; and while he’s not all right with that, we are: we are filled with compassion and love for this child of ours; this lovely child we keep on a sheltered beach, in this wonderful world of ours … )

Sighing.  Yes, being DID can be sometimes wonderful.  But sometimes it can be a problem; not that ‘we’re’ the problem; none of us are.

In some ways we are like a giant and loving family; crammed way inside – and one of our own has been hurt – and we must help ‘move him on his journey to healing’.  Even if it’s by doing this thing.

The telling of our next tale in this series*; this Little Shop of Mine.

*LO soft L’ing: I, M3, and some others – all of us in the string of controllers in mine; my own family and ‘mine’have been ‘dodging the issue’ ever since ‘the others’ have ordered us to “Begin Processing”, as the system puts it (a hard firm pushing order behind them words).  So we ‘Tweet’ and we “chirp” on other people’s blogs; showing our face on Facebook; other kinds of things – all in the interest of preserving the system stability – while the ‘drive’ of the system is pushing us “TO HEAL!” – and a dangerous kinda balance in between.  So we’re gonna continue to blog on my other blog (you know the one; the Jeffery’s Song one) – and perhaps maybe mess around, while we give that little boy in us time to recuperate some – while awaiting the next ‘battle’ – our own kinda battle … the one deep down inside.)



The Drum Beats Slowly (Tokoni 05/10/2009)

(Note: I wrote this 5/10/2009.  Now it is almost 5/2011.  So . . . the drum beats again.)

About every four or five or eight or ten years, it happens. It’s like a drumbeat in my life. I suppose the first stroke may have been from that time in “Remember When”. It sounded again when I was fourteen, again (hard) at twenty-one. Again at twenty-eight. Then another beat when I was thirty-eight., a hard blow that took years to overcome. And now at forty-nine I feel the pulse of the drum again. I can’t say which time has been worse or better, only that it’s always been different. And each time the beat echoes through my mind, I learn more about myself and life and people in general. And each time I come through the other side. Stronger in some ways. More sensitive in others. Always better and sometimes wiser. Life is a learning process, and I’m still learning.

The drum beats slowly, and I’m hearing it again.

Why Tokoni? I found Tokoni through a banner on Fictionpress, clicked to see if it was of interest . The byline caught my eye. “Life is full of stories. Tell yours.” That was five months ago. I just joined last week.

I don’t do things lightly, not anymore. But that phrase kept whispering in the back of my head. My youngest daughter, now edging towards twenty-two, has long begged me to write my story. I wrote my story for my wife when she was my fiancé so that she would know what she was getting into, so she could have a chance to back out before she got in. But that was almost a quarter century ago. There is only one copy; it is hers, and for her alone. Other people have told me I should “write my story”, because apparently they think I’ve lived an interesting life. Note that interesting doesn’t always mean fun. I don’t know; I have no reference; it’s the only life I’ve known intimately. I’ll have to let others judge whether the quality has been ‘interesting’ or not. As for me, I don’t pretend. I know its been more interesting than some, less than others. So that’s one of my reasons: to obey Tokoni’s subtle command, do it honestly, and do it well; to fulfill my daughter’s wishes, and those of some others.

There are other reasons, of course. Once again, I find myself compelled by some deep part of me to explore my past. Not just looking for the abuses, the problems, the tragedies; but to also find the good things and the lessons there. I know they are there, but I’m all too painfully aware of the human mind’s instinctive nature to remember the bad and forget the good. After all, it’s a survival mechanism. Think about it and you’ll understand it’s true. The bad things are threats,or at least perceived as such – whether to life and limb, or soundness of mind and spirit. The mind files them away for future reference in the hope that you’ll know what to do next time it happens. The good? Not so much. After all, those things didn’t threaten you. I also wish to understand the motivations – not just of myself, but of the other people around me during those darker times.

I know better than to peer too deeply into my past’s bitter well – the well of sorrows and regret. I just might fall in. It’s happened before, and it affected me badly, until I climbed out of the deep dark pit. That’s one thing about drinking from the well. The more you drink, the deeper you can fall, until you’re full of bitterness, anger and sorrow, and when you look up – there’s no light anymore. The well is endless; you can find yourself swimming in it forever, if you’re not careful. You’ve fallen too far. That’s the Pit for me. Been there, done that, and don’t intend on doing it again. So I’m taking it easy, just a little bit at a time – a teaspoonful here, a half a cup there. Is it dangerous? Yes, drinking poison always is. But I subscribe to a theory here and now: that perhaps that’s what it’s about, this thrumming of the the drum. Inoculating myself to the sadness; drinking from the well just one drop at a time; letting it settle in – and then letting it pass. After all, I’ve been here before, in ninety-six or so, and again when I was twenty-one, two, and three. And in each time, I learned something – sometimes many things – important to me and my being and state of happiness.

I’m no stranger to the internet. I was using it back when it was just Unix, and a bunch of university and governmental sites. I dropped it for many years, up until the mid-nineties, when I heard that drum once again. I’ve done the chat rooms; was even an on-line counselor for a few years, while I was seeking help for myself. They said I was good at it, and through it I discovered that one of the best things a survivor can do is help another survivor. Helping others helps us help ourselves. It’s a way of overcoming the abuse. It’s also a way of healing one’s self, though the scars will always be there. Just don’t pick at them too much. Open wounds are hard to heal. I often refer to the abuse as being a bloody coin. Like a coin, it has value. You just have to turn it over and over again sometimes to discover the golden side. Perhaps that’s why I’m doing it again – holding that heavy coin in my hand, looking at it again, hoping to discover more of the hidden truths and goodness in it’s dark nature.

Back when I was twenty-one and the drum sounded hard and loud, I examined the nature of happiness. It wasn’t the first time. I was a different person then; that tolling of the drum changed me, and it was for a good thing. It was painful, nearly killed me – but I don’t have the temper I had then; I have much better control – and I learned a modicum of happiness – though finding my wife and her kids (another story) helped a whole lot.

I’ve been studying happiness since my mid-teens. Again – another story. I think I’ve done well; better than some I see. People say I’m a happy-go-lucky laid back type of person with a good sense of humor (even in the worst of times). It wasn’t always that way. I’m the first to admit I used to be a mean SOB. But the thumping of that drum changed me.

I guess that’s another reason I’m on the internet, here on Tokoni. Its a small site; just take a look at the number of users and stories posted. I’m not out to shout my story to the world. I just want a small fine place where I can get it in order, take a look at it, see how far I’ve come. And yeah, a lot of its been painful, and hurts me to this day, but that’s okay. I’m well equipped (I think) to deal with it now. I know the nature of happiness, have learned the art of acceptance. I don’t get furiously angry; bitterness is not my style, though sometimes it still bites. Are there bitter stories? Yes, they come from the well. But I know I can survive telling them, which is why, I guess, I’m here right now. To sort it out. And yeah – I save these stories, here on my own computer. My daughter and family don’t know I’ve begun this task. My wife probably suspects I’m hearing that drum again (I can tell by her somewhat troubled expression and actions now; I guess I’m not hiding it as well as I should. It’s too painful to her.) Not all of what gets posted here will make it into my story to them. But some of it might.

I know survivors. There are endless variations. No two stories are the same. The results can be similar – but the stories are as varied as the stars, and some – some are much, much more painful than mine. I learned that as an on-line counselor. I also learned its useless to compare stories, the ‘who’s story is worse than whose’ syndrome. For it’s not the stories that matter so much as their effects. I won’t go into all that. There’s just too much to tell. But I did learn: it can be overcome.

Why tell the stories at all? That’s another thing I learned. That sometimes, by posting a story, it can encourage others to tell theirs – in all their glory and pain. It can help someone, if only by letting them know it’s okay – and hopefully move on. Maybe some will see my reasoning, my methods, and find them useful to them. Perhaps there is some rationality in my somewhat irrational way of thinking. And I know — there is always some water left in that well. That’s why I advise survivors to drink from it lightly, and a little at a time; not to dive in, lest them find themselves immersed in that dark water, all light gone. It’s advice I need to remind myself from time to time, this being one of them. And hopefully, for those swimming in the well of pain, it’ll help to know someone managed to climb out – and is willing to reach down to them in this way. Sometimes it is only the hope of having hope someday that keeps us going. Sometimes that’s all there is.

Its time. I hear that drum, softly thumping in my soul. I know the dangers of where I go. Darkness may lay ahead – but I can not ignore its beat. I don’t fear the darkness. I have drank from the well before. But hopefully I have the tools, the knowledge, and the wisdom not to fall in – not this time. If I do, then so be it. I know I’ll emerge a better man. I have before. I’ll have to be careful; I always must when I lean over and look into the well. Its an easy thing to fall into – and a long, hard, agonizing climb back out. But at least I know this time: if I do fall in, its for a good cause – many of them, both personal, and for others. And if I do fall in – I know this:

I can climb out again, because I’ve done it before. And if somehow, somewhere, one of these stories can give a survivor hope, give them a method, a helpful realization – then I have helped myself by helping someone else like me.

And if so, then all I’ve gone through, all I’ve seen, and all I’ve done has been worth it. That’s the golden side of that bloody coin I mentioned; the bloody coin of abuse.

If it helps just one, then it has helped me – and that gives it value and meaning in my life.