Tag Archive: DID


A Pause for Station Identification


We’ve taken a long pause on this, our blog of our childhood – and beyond. Perhaps this become another’s story; perhaps it is our own – though I know in reality they are intertwined, for ‘I’ am DID and there’s a lot in my life I don’t understand.

This is about “13”, our alter, who more or less took over from the time we left Germany until we came back to the USA – and beyond.  It wasn’t supposed to be that way it appears . . .

This is where “we’ve” been stuck, and is part of the reason for this blog: to work our alters out of our woodwork; to understand our own life, its arc and path – ‘who’ became ‘what’, the reasons why . . .

And that’s why ‘we’ have been stuck for such a long time. We’d sit down to work on this blog – and draw a blank on emotions, memories sometimes. Oh some of them would be there, like glimpses through a fog – snapshots only.

But a few weeks ago we started experiencing a disturbing emotion . . . and it turned out to be “13” – the key to moving on.

So we’re going over what we’ve wrote over the past week . . . documenting 13’s journey, and the steps we – he – ‘they’ took . . .

In many ways this is another alter’s story; not my own, not “Mikie’s”, nor the alter ‘he’ sprang from – an entirely different viewpoint, way of looking at the world . . .

for ’13’ was born when we were 13, and had only a few months left ‘in-country’ before we would go over the the “Good Ol’ U.S. of A.” which we had left a few years earlier.  Change was in the air; our best friend was gone, our girlfriend was fast becoming a thing of history, clouds were on the near horizon – gray ones, whirling and thick in my mind . .

 


I am 13 and I was born over in Germany but I was fairly prepared.  Gone were a lot of the emotions and outlooks I’d had.  I’d read many books and seen a lot of things, but sex with a girl was on my mind – not that I’d had any, tho’ I’d come close with a cousin once, and then with another girl.

I’d had sex over here but it didn’t take – friends were a thing of the past. I was way more into science and writing and stuff.  I played in the band.  I’d learned not to make friends.

I had learned racism over here, due to a few incidents with some blacks. That’s okay. I’ve very nearly gotten over it, but statistics don’t lie, and the black mobs over there were cruel. Unruly. And ran around in mobs.

That reminds me; I’m supposed to write about dealing with racism over here. (germany – host entry – he’s still a bit lost over ‘here’ in the real world)

Not that that has anything to do with this story. Racism plays a part in my life, but just a little one. We didn’t know nuthin’ as a kid about racism. All were the same in my little kid’s mind. ‘We’ learned better later on.

My host is reminding me it’s time to go on. “How should I write this” he is saying.  Should I do it from first person viewpoint or ‘yours’ (his).  I should be writing a question to my (intended) audience.  I could do it like stories like my Boss wants me, or just cut to the chase. I don’t want to do it either way.

But (sighing) I suppose I should fill in the racism blank. And a few other things over there.  But it was hard.

(Bosses Viewpoint):

Okay here I gotta step in (teen attending).  13 is a highly intelligent kid; apart somewhat from “the system”, although very important.  We’d always kind of ignored him – ‘he’ was like an engine running in the background, quiet, but doing his job . . .

then he began to ‘choke’ a bit last week.  Funny how what you took for granted can suddenly misbehave.  But that’s good. We’re gonna get some work done on this blog.

He’s all alone in his own way.  “We” had stripped him/it from certain aspects of ‘his’ personality.  He read.  He was well traveled.  He’d seen Berlin, Spain, whatnot . . . and plowed through every book he could get his hands on.  Fluent in English, he had gained a junior college vocabulary and reading comprehension skill level – he was tested for that – and wrote quite a bit (mostly poems).  And he was shy – painfully so. But at the same time big, quite strong, a bit flabby in the middle, but close mouthed and HARD.  He’d lie to you in a heartbeat, smoke a cigarette in the restroom – give a blowjob there – and go on to steal tank parts (or the bullets that go in them) at night.

He knew about nuclear bombs and nuclear missiles; about girls and boys – knew enough about the biology to make a woman happy; the seven erogenous zones (on a woman, anyway) – knew how to drink and hold it, used his bike like a car; was at home in a German atmosphere as the home one, tho’ sometimes ‘he’ would retreat inside while the child was being punished, sparing himself some pain . . .

He’d read “Everything a Boy Needs to Know About Sex” – and the girls version, too – just to be safe.  He’d seen a dog jacked off; done it on his own as his abuser had taught him to do, had loved and lost and loved again – and had lost

until he’d sworn off of it.

“Never again,” he was saying in the back of his mind. “No more pain.”

But ‘he’ didn’t know that, not yet . . .

that still laid ahead in his future . . .

and he was a pretty tough kid.

 

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The boy sat at his desk, staring at it’s fake plastic wood, the hard curved panels of plywood behind him and under his butt.  Beneath him was a square cube; he sat on it, sitting on his books.  Before him were two walls, joined in a corner.  He smiled, playing with his hands and muttering to himself . . .

That was ‘me’ as a child in first grade.  I was the one who wouldn’t stop talking – not for anything, anyone, or despite the punishment they gave me.  Place me with other children and I would start talking with them, making friends.  Put me in the corner and I’d talk to myself.  Put me with grownups, and not yet unafraid, I would start talking to them – asking questions and getting into things.  I was a very inquisitive child driven by insatiable curiosity, a talented ‘artist’ for my age, with a wide ranging imagination, and . . . I had been highly abused according to what the professionals (and my wife) had told me.

The thing was: I was always talking to myself – inside, if not out.  But everyone does that: talk to yourself.  You even have ‘sides’ that argue.  So do I.  But as a child . . . a creative child blessed (and therefore cursed) with a wide ranging imagination.  This was not a “wild” imagination.  Imagination had to be based upon truth, or an extension of that.  There had to be what WE thought was a bit of scientific ‘truth’, even at play . . .

And so I suppose it started with those stuffed animals he ‘owned’ (knowing in his secret life that they were not his.  Everything belonged to the parents, even him.  How could HE own anything when he was not allowed to even own his mind?  Much less his body.  His parents and the Army owned those things.  He just ‘inhabited’ them.

The boy sits in his room.  There is a desk – a huge monstrosity his mother had special built for him, it holds everything – and a dresser, and a single bed.  That’s all – him and the stuffed animals he has gathered in a ring.  They are talking . . . constantly holding forth a conversation – him and his bear, him and his ‘friend’ . . . he’s been sent to his room again for ‘being bad’ – perhaps he’s gotten whipped, but he doesn’t remember that thing, not too well . . . he talks and whispers to his friends, his Leo the Lion hand puppet on one hand . . .  whispering in its ear, tears running down sometimes . . .

I don’t know what all he said.  I can’t recall a single word – I just can almost hear them – whispers in the back of my head. . .

“He won’t stop talking!” the teacher complained, frustrated.  My mom told me this – and I remember.  “I put him in the corner and it does no good!  Instead of talking to others, he starts talking to himself!  I don’t know what to do with him!”

She was a mean teacher.  She called me a Nazi and German and said I was no good.  Even at art though she gave me an award.  It wasn’t until I got the award that I found I had done bad.  But I wouldn’t cry.  Not for her.

Who was I talking to?

I know.

I was talking to myself.  All of the time.  My imaginary friends; the ones inside.  And my hands were for them talking to me.  I could make both my hands be my friends.  The dots on the board were my friends.  Even the flies became my friends when I was a teenager.  Sometimes they were the only thing to do . . .

Isolation.  Imagine a child and you keep ‘him’ in isolation.  Not constant isolation, mind you – but social isolation (sometimes) and isolated from family.  As far as he knows, there are only three members in his family – four if you count the dog.

(gee . . . this was right about the time the teenager made me have sex with ‘him’ . . .)

Not a good thing.  Especially to a highly creative, imaginative child who has been abused – badly abused – and is being abused still.  Hell, the situation is even worsening . . . but it does no good to tell . . .

“Doesn’t everybody go through something like this?”, I remember him thinking/saying to himself, looking at the neighbor kids.  Some of them ‘went through it’.  Some of them ‘went through it’ with HIM.  How could he not know?  And yet – how could he know anything different?  There was no one to teach him what goes on in back rooms . . . except for the occupants of that room themselves . . .

He goes on talking to his children.  The ones upon the floor.  The bear has become very alive to him.  They all have.  Along with some ‘others’ inside . . . inside his heart and his head.

He doesn’t even know who they are at this moment.  Sometimes . . . sometimes ‘he’ has difficulty recalling his own name . . .

The child who talked too much.  Talking to himself in the corner of the room.  Whispering while he watches his hands writhe in his lap sometimes, playing with themselves.  Listening to his own mind; his own echoes . . .  he personifies everything . . .

A lamp falls, its glass base breaking.  I had accidently pulled it down by the cord crawling around under the end table and it had gotten broken.  I wasn’t sad because I was about to be beaten.  I was sad because the lamp could no longer complete its function.  I had ended its ‘life’ . . .

I feel that way about a lot of things.  So does my daughter.  She is about to move and she worries her old apartment will suffer feelings of abandonment . . . even though her boyfriend says it’s not so . . .

Like daughter like son like father.

They say madness runs genetic.  It runs on one side of my family.

And I guess it runs in mine.

 

 

 


Young Love

I first encountered him on the playground, on the domed top of the convoluted steel grid of monkey bars. This was back in the day when all playground equipment was steel, and the middle of the bars were polished like mirrors from so many hands over the years.

The sky was gray and overcast, it was late in the afternoon. It must have been near winter, for it was almost twilight but there was no snow. I remember a crescent moon rising in the gray skies – glimpsed between the clouds somewhere between fifteen and thirty degrees. I paid attention to things like that; my training had already begun, though I didn’t know it. Things, as always, seemed normal. As normal as they could be considering I was an abused country kid from the sticks come to live in West Germany – living the the military apartments – big buildings with thick bombproof walls, and narrow windows.

The playground sat adjacent to the airport. It was a military one – a small one, but so was the base we were on. A lot of the bases we were on were small – little installations given over to the properties of spying, like the planes and electronic gear that my dad worked on. Twin turbo-propped Mohawks took off, but they were rare; mostly it was the UH-1’s – the big Bell Huey helicopters with their distinctive “Whomp! Whomp!” sound.

We had been forbidden to go to any country in which the “Red Flag” was flying. That meant no Warsaw, Poland, no East German or Hungarian trips. That meant we often had to stay behind while our dad went on some “TDY” mission. Sometimes he would be gone for days, weeks at a time. If it wasn’t a NATO nation – we weren’t supposed to go in. We weren’t supposed to go to Berlin, though eventually we did. They said it was because we would have to cross East German soil, and there was some concern ‘the enemy’ might kidnap a child as leverage against my anyone who held a high security clearance, forcing them to become a spy against the US military or giving up all their electronics secrets – or against the US Government as a source of ransom and/or trade for their own spies. It was very ‘normal’ to ‘me’, the kid I was developing into, but in some ways I was still that sexually groomed kid from deep down South . . . trying to figure out things – where in the hell he was, who ‘we’ were, where we were living (it changed all the time – we moved more than a dozen times in a few years), and what we were doing there.

There were about seven or eight boys playing on the playground, and a half dozen of us were on the monkey bars. None of us knew the other; not really. None of us had been around long enough to know anyone, and chances are, no one did. Everyone was moving around too much – us kids just sliding past each other – a quick hello, some desperate attempts to form friendships, and then a few weeks later, goodbye – maybe.  Sometimes they just disappeared.  Sometimes we did.  We got to know this kind of life too well; so well it affected all our lives for the rest of our life. No “life long friends” – people who we are still friends with that you know from your early childhood.   I mean the good kind – the kind you see every few days or so – never a week goes by without one of them calling you. I don’t have that; we moved too much. Neither does my brother. Ditto my parents to a lesser degree – they lost touch with their families (and thus we with ours) by their late teens.  “Family” to me is just a weird joke, one I don’t get.   My mom once said she vowed to stop documenting moves after her fiftieth; we were still just babes when she stopped. I think it was during this particular trip overseas that broke that barrier. We moved so much! Even she can’t tell me where we were when. It was a kaleidoscope of landscapes; a blur of apartments and streets; German towns changing (but all the same) like drops of water sliding down a window pane. Fountains and fortresses, castles grand . . . castles in ruins, tanks in the woods. I don’t know as we settled down in one particular place for more than two, three months before the Army would uproot us and send us on to some other base where my dad’s skills were needed and we were not.

“Who will suck my dick?” one boy cried out. He was an older one, and I shot him a contemptuous glance.  I had experience, I missed my friend – my lover (or lovers) back home – but I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it so casually – I had to love (or at least like a lot) the person.  It didn’t matter if it was girl or boy – I was bisexual before I was four – and I found this type of sexual innuendo deeply disturbing. Scalding memories of what the teenager had done to me – his touch, then the ultimate betrayal – were still fresh in me and hurt. I didn’t trust anyone not to betray me the way he had done, so I hung back when it came to making relationships – especially sexual ones. I had been burnt – and burnt BAD – I wasn’t going to open myself to that flame again! And yet the phrase caught my attention (the boy was just coarsely joking around – half-serious, half not, as young boys sometimes do). I looked at him from beneath hooded eyebrows – I can still see him, my head dropped to some degree, looking up at him both cautiously and with anger, though he had not done anything to me; he was just a ‘normal’ kid, crude, but normal.

“I will!” I heard a small voice pipe up. It was a little kid on the opposite side of the monkey bars. We had a game where we were trying to throw each other down through the bars, hurting someone – but we weren’t playing aggressively. The big boys were too rough – they’d win (perhaps), though none had tried their tactics on me of grabbing a boy and holding him over one of the squared opening, punching him down and through – where he’d bounce and jolt through the steel bars – hopefully breaking a bone! – before landing on the tough turf where short sparse grass grew.

“I love sucking dick!” the little boy continued, drawing my attention. This was almost the exact phrase the teenager had used when he outed me: that I loved sucking dick – “He’ll suck anyone!” the teenager had told his friends, stinging me.  While true to a point (which makes a good point about the truth stings the worst, for it stings the heart, mind, and soul). But I had to love or at least like a kid real to have sex with him; this one didn’t. He apparently didn’t even demand they be a friend – though that might have been his way of making one. He was making offers to strangers, which seemed odd and dangerous to me. I can still feel that ‘dark turning’ I felt when looking at him, hearing him make his ‘offer’. It was the same sensation you get when seeing someone dart into a busy street without looking, knowing they might get run down – and wondering whether to shout and stop them or just look away before the disaster happens.  Especially if you know you are probably powerless to prevent it.

The other kids started laughing; ridiculing him and asking questions. Would he really do it? An older kid, one about fourteen, asked him, to which he eagerly agreed. “Yeah! I like it. I love sucking dick.” My eyes narrowed as I took him in and evaluated him.

He was young, a few years younger than me. A big eight, an average nine, or a underdeveloped ten. He was short with a broad beaming face and curly brown hair. My hair was regulation short – a crisp barrage of hair standing on end in a traditional crew cut, with the sides shaved nice and close – a “high and tight”.

But his face – something about his eyes I think it was. They were brown; as I type this I can ‘see’ more and more clearly (and now the next day editing, even clearer.) – and I felt something within me as he and they got to talking about it. A sadness or a sympathy or empathy or pity or feeling sorry for him – and wanting him to be my friend – and I was interested in accepting his offer – open sex night, no strings involved. But maybe it was something about his face and eyes. Yeah – I think it was the eyes. There’s a ‘look’, you know – that ‘thousand yard stare’ kinda thing soldiers are known to get – only in kids it may more hidden, way back in the eyes. Like ghosts or clouds underneath all those emotions they are expressing – happiness, excited joy, running and playing. It makes a kid’s eyes ‘timeless’, and can make them look old. In the eyes of course. Everywhere else they look normal. Except perhaps a few scars.  I had those.  And I had “that look” I suppose.  (I know I did; I can see it in the mirror.)

I could feel it – that he was like me. More than a bit; almost exactly. The sex is what tipped me off. I wanted to go off and have sex with him right then. Let him know I was the same way – and I wouldn’t use him or mock him for doing it or wanting to do it. The other kids would. I just knew that, could sense their attitudes in their behaviors, their play, and what some of them were saying. Something about him spoke to me. I suppose now, looking back, it would have said “I’ve been abused somewhat, shown sex; I’ve learned to love it too early, and now I will do it with anyone – anyone! – simply to recapture that feeling.” Of course, that may have just been me, projecting my feelings upon him.

So I spoke up. Of all those that were there – and the only ones left who were talking to him – I think there were about three – the others having gotten disgusted by him, or repulsed by what he had said – mocking him and deriding him as they climbed down – and one of them was a teenager who I could tell was quite cruel – he’d been sort of picking on us kids, mostly verbally, while the others ran around, and now he was trying to lure the little kid in using some kind of bait.

“Yeah, we can go over to my apartment,” he was saying – but he had been one of the cruelest mockers and deriders when this thing had first started, and the kid was saying no to him; shaking his head, and the teenager suddenly got fed up and disgusted and climbed down by himself while another couple of kids climbed on.

“I’ll let you do it,” I finally said, keeping my voice kinda low and hopeful and just between me and him. “I’ll do you, too, if you do it to me,” and then I think I said (even lower): “I like doing it, too.” I had missed that feeling – that feeling of someone ‘doing it’ to me, and me doing it to them – plus this little kid had such an open air about him – open and trusting, and yet guarded in some ways. Like I said – it was kinda like de ja vu’ I was feeling – thing is, it was not. It was merely seeing a kind of reflection of the kid I am/was. And you have to remember: I had been having sex for years, nearly on a daily basis during the summer of the last three of them. Not just with boys, but with girls. You gotta remember my cousin, with whom I had fell in love with.

Just then my momma called me.

“Dinnertime!” she said, calling from the communal door of the apartment building. There were two stairwells, one on each end, and we lived on the second floor; inside one, right hand. Up two turns and you’re in the middle kind of thing. They were four stories tall, in case you were wondering, with 8 to 16 room ‘attic’ apartments above. They called them ‘transits’ because that’s where all the ‘transitory people’ lived – people who were going someplace and the Army needed their apartments because someone new was coming in – or people who were going someplace – like back overseas. We lived in ‘transits’ once that I remember; maybe twice. It was really cool.

And so ended the beginning of my very first friendship over there. The dinner bell was ringing and it was time to ‘go in’ – and eat dinner with my miserable family who never got along.

So I said “bye” to him regretfully and left him alone with two of the others. He had just started to go along with me – following me down the bars. I think he, like me, could sense something of himself in me; that’s why he wanted to be friends. So we parted there on good terms, almost beneath the monkey bars, with the helicopters thundering off and on . . . gray clouds . . . and I grew depressed . . . slogging in instead of at my usual run, head down, sad and thinking of him . . . this boy I had just met.

It was the next summer I met him. We had moved to a different base – to run across a kid you knew from before was very unusual. Unheard of for me. The rotisserie of kids and schools and bases were beginning to become familiar  – and yet not. It seems I kept changing – or something. That might explain some of these holes in my head and my memories from ‘over there’.

I’m not sure if it was at the pool (outdoors) or a playground, but I remember we took off where we had began – at the beginning, with him looking at me and me looking, puzzled at this kid, feeling the faint stirrings of memory.

“You’re him,” I think I said, or something very much like it. “We met at that other base . . .”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming and smiling. “You still want to do it?”

And simple as that, we became friends. Of course we had sex after our first encounter – nothing major, just the oral thing – him doing me, me encouraging him – ‘showing him how’ somewhat because he still needed some skills in his technique – and me ‘doing him’ just for the pleasure of making my new friend feel good, welcome, needed, and happy – which he was doing for me.

We wandered that base during those hot summer months – or at least they felt hot to me. I had acclimated to the German weather, so I felt the heat when they did, and not so much the cold as I had when we first arrived. I’d gotten used to the winter regime of clothing – and even more layers of clothing – and the summer felt so free! I could wander up to the pool in my swim shorts and a towel – flip flops flapping, though for the most part I ran around as I had in the  ‘hood back in the States – barefoot and almost . . . but not nearly enough – carefree. I wasn’t the child I am sometimes inside; I wasn’t ‘he’. I wasn’t the boy who’d left the States – though that part of me seemed to go into hiding sometimes, staring from my eyes in wonder at the castles and the land. In a way I was a jumble of ‘parts’ in me – and I could feel it. I didn’t think in terms of “I” and “me” so much as ‘us’ and ‘them’. I sometimes found myself interjecting the word “we” sometimes – and becoming confused because I meant just one: me. But it wasn’t ‘me’ all the time. There were ‘other parts’ forming – I could ‘feel’ them in my dreams, feel them taking over ‘parts’ of me: certain emotional states and emotions. I could feel myself ‘slipping away’ when one part would ‘take control’ – leading me into some kind of temptation (laughing).

And this boy and I . . .

We fell in love, we did. With him, even though he was a bit younger than me – he became more like a little brother. He shared his secrets with me and I with him – how our parents beat us (his were much worse some of the time, mine had quit the worst of the abuse – the beatings – when we had arrived in Germany – and those damned apartments where everyone would have to be so damned quiet – even if we WERE getting beaten. You couldn’t let the neighbors know those things – how ‘bad’ us kids had become; how ‘awful’ we are/were (for those were my thoughts in the day.) I knew what me and the boy were doing was ‘wrong’ by some crowd’s notice; but on the other hand – he was my ‘best friend’ at the time, and the only one I had.

I remember us going from here to there – stopping for sex once and awhile, either in the bushes or the PX bathroom one time. (I didn’t like going there; I felt cheap while I ‘did him’ with him standing on the toilet seat.) I treated him to some movies once and awhile – I was earning money from my first job.  And bought us both treats at the PX and club – ice cream perhaps, some chips to eat – nothing fancy, and he asked for nothing, ever. Just for the chance to ‘do me’ sometimes and make me feel good, be my friend.

I don’t recall ever going over to his apartment, nor him coming to mine, though he might of. I remember us mostly meeting in the parking lot by the playground, and then going together to do something. Sometimes that ‘something’ was walking the fence line – the fence that separated us from our outside neighbors, the Germans. We’d pause here and there sometimes – dropping into the grass or near some bushes – and ‘make love’ in our own kind of way, each encouraging the other. We’d hold hands, give hugs – cheek to cheek sometimes, just holding one another, eyes closed, breath coming softly in my ear while I hugged him – feeling that warm body under that skin and enjoying it. Often it would take me back to past times – times with the teenager and/or my friends back home. Then we would rise and dust ourselves off – pulling up our shorts if we needed to – and go wandering on, looking for something to do, something to keep our interests until ‘the next time’.

Like I said: we grew to be close friends, closer than even brothers in some ways. We each commiserated in each others misery and pain; we shared our loneliness by sharing in our ‘game’ – a shameful game to the world, perhaps, but not to us. To us it was a simple thing – a joy. We couldn’t understand why all the other kids and grownups seemed so dead hard set against this sort of thing, but we knew to keep it a secret between us.

Eventually the game came to an end. The time came when I went out to the parking lot looking for him; on the playground, all our usual stomping spots, and then all our usual stopping spots – and then I went to his apartment, heart sinking, sick to heart from suspicion, thinking I knew what happened. Knocking on his door, I braced myself to prepare for his parents. I had heard they were quite mean.

The face that greeted me when the door opened was a younger woman – a short one, almost my height – and she said something that was to change my life.  Bring that sudden realization a little closer to my heart like the sharp knife it was.

“He isn’t here anymore. They moved on.”

And that’s when I began to realize: No one is permanent. Nothing remains the same. My friends would just keep on being yanked away – every time I made one it would happen as sure as night follows day. Time and time and time again – as soon as I would hold out my hands for love, they would get slapped away, or else the people I was craving would turn their backs and reject me. That little boy – he had no friends, none besides me. I think that was because of his sexual orientation and the way he advertised so honestly his willingness. I think now, looking back, that it was only in desperation that he would do those things – offering a blow job first, friendship later. I wasn’t like that – too shy, too self-inhibited, and demanding from my own self that I love them (or at least like them) first.  And even that – that had taken a hit, some damage, from what the teenager had done.  To this day, I find it hard to trust anyone with my love, especially the sexual kind.  They always hurt me.  Always.

But it saddened me – hit me hard, hurt me hard, to see that neighbor open the door and it wasn’t who I had expected. To find your friend – your lover – is gone, yanked right out from under you, and you hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. You never saw it coming. And so like a fist in the face, a blow to the head (and heart) . . . I stumbled away, thanking the girl, and trying to stop the tears from coming into my eyes . . .

Lonely again, wandering another base without a friend, I soon made another. He was mean and bullying, older than me – and he simply used me as I used him. Under buildings, behind bushes – it wasn’t even about being friends. It was about a part of me mourning and separating from ‘him’, trying to recapture that hidden feeling, which I never did. Not with him, anyway. And so slowly, a part of me went into hiding and died.

For a long long time afterwards.

And I think that part was ‘little Michael’ or ‘little Mikie’ . . . the boy ‘he’ wanted to be.


Back to the ‘Hood        

 

If you’ve been following this blog at all, you know we left “the Hood” to do a year’s stint in North Carolina – yanking me from one culture and dropping me in another.  And even there we were yanked around.  My dad did something which removed us from ‘civilian culture’ – a nice newish brick house on the end of a cul-de-sac – to the rough and tumble world of enlisted housing (in apartments, no less – my first experience with them as well!)

As we’ve determined, these moves (coupled with the physical, mental, emotional, and social abuse) contributed towards the fracturing of my “child’s personality”.  It seems for each ‘place’ – the longer ‘we’ stayed, the more apt I was to build a ‘person’ to handle that place, those circumstances, and a whole bunch of other things.  This is a continuation of that tale . . . Tales from the Hood, I reckon I oughta call them . . .

We left Fort Bragg, North Carolina, when I was ten years old, going back to our home in the ‘hood.  Arriving back in the ‘hood was like slipping on a well worn glove – we fitted in seamlessly, as though we’d never been away. Immediately the old patterns re-emerged, the shirts came off, the shoes slipped to the side, and everything was as it had been before — rough, unpaved, and set in the sandy hills of a backwards backwoods Southern neighborhood. During the first two weeks in the ‘hood my best friend and I fought – an agreed upon fight, just to see who could beat up who. I won, maintaining the status quo, and we both walked away – arm in arm, grinning at our injuries, friends despite our battle. Odd how that always went with my best friend and I. No matter how bad our fights were, we always made right back up immediately.

Among the changes when we came back was my father’s horror at the treehouse we’d built, so high in that mighty pine. Declaring it “too dangerous” for boys to climb (despite the fact we’d been using it for years), he went up there and tore it down while all of us kids gathered to watch in despair. We’d worked so hard to build the thing, taking such great risks getting the lumber up there – and he disassembled it in one afternoon. That was my dad – always destroying what us kids had built, whether it be a playhouse, a fort, or our own self-esteem – then walking away to leave us, sometimes for years at a time. He never helped us, not that I recall, except for me, one time,in a fight I was losing. Usually he was caught between ignoring us or beating us; one or the other, and we always at odds with ourselves when he was gone, because he would be leaving us with our sometimes cruel, psychotic and always strange mother.  At least when he was there her anger at men — and her rage at life in general — would be directed at him, not taken out on us quite so often.

Other things, too, had changed. The teenager, who hadused and betrayed me, was pretty much leaving us younger boys alone. I guess we were getting too old for him, or perhaps he’d grown to have other interests – he hung around his teenage friends more, and they’d often go off driving. Not that that stopped us kids from doing what he’d taught us; we had learned more than we should of, that I know. But for me it was something I only did with my peers, and no longer with someone older. There were exceptions, of course – I know sometimes the teenager would have my friends do the things he’d taught us to him.  I know because they would sometimes come to do them with me, afterwards.  But after the way he had shamed and betrayed me, I never joined in again. I was afraid he’d just laugh at me, or hurt me in the way he had. That shame and sense of being used was too strong in me, and is something I still have within, albeit it is confined to the ‘inner child’ of mine, a much too real part of my internal personalities. Since I wasn’t having sex with him anymore (or maybe I was, I just don’t remember: I know I would have if he asked), I can’t be certain how much he was still preying on my friends, I just know that he sometimes still did.  And I know he was targeting the younger kids of the ‘hood, ones that had been my age when he’d started in on me. To this day I think he had a preference for kids between the ages of five and nine; he was always trying to get us to initiate those younger kids into sex, and then bring them to him. And yes, I am ashamed to say that I went along with his plan, but the kid I initiated never had sex with him. He wasn’t that in to it, and I soon quit my behaviors, realizing that he didn’t much care for it – and I’ve never been one to force someone into that, no matter how badly I may of wanted it. I don’t know why I was and am still that way, but I’m glad that I am. The only thing I can think of is that somewhere down the line, early in my childhood, I was forced to do those things against my will – but I can’t remember it.  There are dark spots in my mind and memory – and I’ve learned not to explore. Life can get bad that way sometimes, making your mind hole up and bury the things you’ve learned – when those things are too horrible to admit to yourself, or so bad it decides you shouldn’t know they happened. And from talking to my brother I’ve realized: there’s a lot of things I’ve “blocked out”, and in many cases it was (and is) for good reason.  What I do remember is the times I said “yes”, or begged for my abuser to molest me — a problem for me since it is a problem for my inner selves.  Some of them just can’t internalize that as rape; they see it as consenting, and therefore asked for — a shameful thing.  Oh well.  (That’s my standard statement for when I get hopelessly stuck on an issue: “oh well.”)

While I didn’t know it, this was to be my last year in the ‘hood as I knew it, and the year would end in many major changes, most of them disastrous, and affecting the entire life of almost everyone in the ‘hood. I would come back only one more time, half a decade later, to find that yes, nightmares do sometimes come true.


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.

The Beast


Need we say more?  This is what – and who – it says.  Done back in 1995 or so with a regular school pencil on a piece of Xerox (copy) paper . . . then scanned in about ’98 or so . . .


Below is “The Dragon” (aka “Our Beast”) patrolling his own “World” (our underworld) . . . at this time I think he was hunting Mikie – trying to kill him or hurt him some more.

It was done by taking the above scanned image and ‘colorizing’ it using Corel Photopaint along with some fractals (KPT).

Please feel free to copy and use these images – HOWEVER, DO so “not-for-profit” – AND give credit (a link will do) where credit belongs: to our teenager self and/or this ‘web site’ . . . Thank you.

The Boy Nobody Wanted


It took my wife to tell me of what my mom had said; reminded me.

I was the boy who nobody wanted anything to do with.  The one who was often shoved aside; put in the corner to watch and wait – a smiling child, a gregarious child, a curious and inquisitive child – too inquisitive, apparently; it drove our great-grandmother wild.

“You were always shoved aside,” my mom told me.  “They (the elders on my father’s side) didn’t like you; didn’t want anything to do with you.”

This from the woman who didn’t want children, male children most of all.  Nor female, for those were “more trouble than they’re worth”.  And I was the second child – a planned one, unlike my brother who had inconvenienced her life by showing up in the first place.  Born to a dad who wanted a girl – always wanted one – but found he had a son instead – one he didn’t want, because he’d had one already.  (I shudder to think of what would have happened had his wish come true; had I been born a girl.  I would have been raped to death in that one neighborhood – just like my child bride – and perhaps used by another – my uncle, I’m thinking, though he’s a little gay.  Don’t ask me how I found out – I don’t want to tell.)

“Your father’s mom always bought little Richie everything,” she’d go on to say (my mom), “when we’d go up there to visit – and she’d buy you nothing.  You didn’t matter at all.  They really didn’t like you, you know . . .”

(“you really were quite a burden you know,” I recall my grandmother saying – this another one – “Your parents were poor . . . you shouldn’t have ever been born to them.”  This was when I was what – 15? 16? 17? . . . just so you know where you’re standing.)

It took my wife to remind me of all this: my momma’s story about how I was shuffled aside; ignored at family ‘meetings’, get togethers and things.  But only among the adults.  Between us kids it was something different – we were just kids, not involved in family politics – so we played . . .

But I remember going over to grandmother 1’s: the not-mother of my father, the woman who had taken control – indeed, taking control of the entire family “out there” (meaning the Midwest).  She was (I reckon) the aunt or her husband the uncle of my father – the relationships have never been clear – but I remember going over there several times, and I’d be relegated to the basement.  Ditto the mother of my mom’s own mom (the ancient grandmotherly type) – sentenced to the basement while the others ran wild upstairs sometimes – not that I was not allowed to be with them – it’s just usually I would be gently encouraged and led back down those dark dank stairs into the basement – which was really quite airy actually, and had a humongous furnace in the back – or my “aunt’s” basement where the old antiques lay . . .

I’d poke about, sticking my nose into every corner, trying everything – always a curious child . . . a problem one, according to my great-grandmother’s thinking – but she was kind (and always one of my favorites) – stern, old fashioned – but kind (in her own sort of way) and I treasured HER very much (not the one on my father’s side).

Not wanted . . .

brings me to that teenage thing again (see how the circles wander . . . coming back to connect to one another again? such is the nature of association, the abuse association again . . . ) how he had wanted me – got me – used me for some time . . .

and simply shamed me away.

But then: there’s more to that.  That was in the Terrible November, the Horrible October – That ONE in which everything we were went wrong; everything blew apart, and our lives were shattered forever . . . once again.

I’m gonna have to write about that thing.  It’s hard; very hard; it was a hard time; little Mikie suffered somewhat . . .

and then he ‘died’ – in every classic sense of the world – ‘going away’ forever (it seemed) – while some ‘others’ began taking over (13: his name, not a number in there) – after we got yanked up by the roots – already traumatized some by what had happened (death, horrible nightmares; bad things; sick sick sick) – loss of ALL friends – everything, everyone . . .

and we were alone.

The little boy who tried had died inside

and it was time to begin again.