Tag Archive: dreams



A reoccurring dream I had between about 6-1/2 to 8 years old.  By this time I was used to Boy in Darknightmares.  I knew nothing else – no wish fulfillment dreams, no happy party dreams, or any of those types of dreams I learned later most folks have.  They didn’t, as a child, suffer from dreams of loss, war, horror, guts, you name it.  Not too many monsters or all that – just war, and loss – and this one which has nagged at me for the past few months.  I don’t know why so I am writing it down.  Maybe that’ll shake the demon loose.)


The Dream

You are standing in a white corridor about 50 feet long and it is about 10, maybe 12 foot wide.  Interspersed down both walls of the corridor are door with small windows; all of them are painted white as well. The doorknobs glow silver from the only light which emanates from a large but basic wood framed window.  (I know the type – its just like the windows used in the old wooden World War II barracks the Army used to use on its bases.)

The floor is tiled with what appear to be large white linoleum squares, and the ceiling is pretty plain – or else I’m not too concerned with it – because I am staring at the tiles while voices and hands from behind urge me forward.

“Take your time,” they are saying, “But step carefully.  Some of those tiles are booby-trapped.”

The voices, I know, belong to short dark haired guys in lab coats, and they are behind me urging to go on.

I take a step, fighting between the sense of urgency those coaxing voices give and hesitation, having had this dream before, knowing that there are traps that lay within the floor, pausing, examining the tiles for some clues. There are none, so I make my way as best I can – by hunch and intuition – trying to avoid the tiles that ‘feel wrong’.  I just want to get to the end where the window is.  If only I could look get there . . . perhaps I’d know something, what this was for.

Inevitably it happens.  As time progresses and I have the dream again and again I know it will, but I keep on trying not to step on that treacherous tile that will send me down to “them“.

But inevitably catches up with me, always.  Somewhere between 1/4 to 2/3rds of the way down the hall I step on a and it gives way below me, the hinge behind, and drop me on a curved half-pipe stainless steel or chromed slide with black stained sides, as if a thick lacquer, though I think it was mold, had been spilled along its edges.

The transition from the white airy hallway into dark, damp, dank, humid darkness was extreme, and abrupt.  I’d see the square of light above me shrink as I slide down the slide’s spiral, then it would snap shut as I slid to the end – a straighter section about six to eight feet long, and it ended at, or near a table.

The room – how can I describe it?  Murky, dark, it felt like an earthen cave.  To this day I still can kind of sense how rough and tumble were the walls.

And there were witches there, or at least that’s how I understood, or perceived them – shadowy figures dressed on cowled cloaks, faces hidden in the darkness under their hoods.  Most of the conversation I couldn’t follow – it was in whispers – but they’d remove me from the slide – usually three on a side – and lay me on the table.  Then they’d undress me.

I know I was a bit frightened and scared, especially when they’d start laying food on and all around me on the table.  I figured I was the main course, and I didn’t relish being eaten.  The light was dim, diffuse, mostly around the table, but I don’t know where it came from.  The atmosphere was cold, clammy, damp, almost fetid, and I’d hear the rustling and the feet – on dirt, it sounded like – as they’d go about their business of setting up this ‘feast’ of theirs.  And then they’d start eating – not as a group, but each one coming forth from the dark corners of the room-seeming-cave, selecting just a few items, and retreating back into the dark to eat them.  Then another one or two would come forward.

Sometimes they touched me, and through the fear there was something inherently sexual about it – but mostly fear sometimes, especially when they’d start to nibble on me – mostly my feet, it seemed, but I’ve got some nightmares I’ve blocked out that features me being much more giving, and them demanding.

And then it would black out.
And I’d awake to my normal childhood.


 

 

 

I can not positively attribute the above dream to my mother, who was a practicing witch.   However, I cannot see where she would have had the resources to do this at that place and time.  We were right next to a major Army base; I know I often went there.  She wasn’t Wicca nor, to the best of my knowledge, practiced the dark arts or rituals in a classic sense of potions and formulas, or cauldrons and dancing in the woods naked.  However, there were many who swore she had “powers” (other than power over her children), and she did teach us kids quite a few things such as “throwing hexes” (which actually seemed to work a couple of times!), how to make voodoo dolls, and the like.  Indeed, I wonder if she actually believed in magic, though she claimed to be able to see auras around trees, bushes, animals, and persons.

“It’s not a matter of whether YOU believe it or not,” she told us.  “What matters is that THEY believe it – and that you can do it.”  And she explained that if we wanted to be the male version of witches – warlocks – all we had to do was “claim it” – that is, when something happens for good or bad, set things up or at least make a statement that you “willed” it to being.

As far as potions and words – she believes in some of the herbal remedies, but ritual and words are, in her words, “to help you focus intent!”.  And given the results of the two times I made a curse – “threw a hex” – the first as a child of 7 – the guy’s car gave him bad trouble when it came back from what he was doing.

The 2nd time, not so many years ago – about a decade – the man’s otherwise healthy mother died in his arms 2 hours later.

He blamed me for that one.

hex

Nightmares CAN Come True


Nightmares CAN Come True

As a kid I was used to having nightmares. I had nightmares all the time. I never even knew what a ‘wish fulfillment’ dream was until I was about fourteen and read up on them – part of the psychology training that my dad was giving me.

Every dream I’ve ever had was a nightmare in some way, up until I was about forty-eight or so. Every last one featured the same old things: death, wars, loss. Loss of one’s loved ones, mostly – after I’d gotten to where I loved them. “The Boy” comes from a dream like that – and in a way you can say it really happened. A ‘life long’ dream that finally came true. I can finally love my inner child, my ‘selves’, that ‘stuff’.

But one in particular stands out. It was the first major reoccurring dream I had. I’ve had several reoccurring dreams – one three nights in a row! You know what that means: it’s supposed to come true. But it didn’t, fortunately. It was one in which I was trapped . . . in an underground stone maze with a friend, and we kept getting killed by these Spaniards dressed in ancient armor. And we’d ‘sit’ and watch our bodies decompose . . . completely down to bone – and then we’d build it back again – and the chase was one. Over and over again, on through the night . . .

I almost felt comfortable with it in the end, feeling myself die at pike’s end – sinking to the mouldering floor, my friend perhaps besides me, or sometimes fighting on . . .

We’d wander those halls, looking for a way out. And there was never one. But it was beautiful in some ways – those old mossy stones – round cutouts above to let the golden white light in, until we’d stumble across the Spaniards, or they would come pursuing us. And then the race was on.

We always lost in the end.

Three times running we had that dream – it was when I was about sixteen. Weird thing it was.

But sometimes dreams – and even nightmares – come true. I’ve had several of them.

The very first one was when I was a kid living over in Germany. We’d been there a total of two years, with another year of running from base to base – meeting kids, abandoning them – or them abandoning us as the Army orders came in; mixing with various societies and cultures . . .

It led to a lot of . . . I don’t know.

Things, I call them.

And one of them was this dream.

In it we had come back to the ‘hood – the object of my hidden desire: to be once again where my true friends did not change, where the neighborhood and everything in it would remain the same. The same dirt road with the same people living up and down it, pretty much as I had left it . . .

But I guess inside my mind ‘someone’ knew . . .

We are standing on the dirt road, looking uphill towards the horizon. It is jagged and pointed with the tops of pine trees, their individual forms hidden in darkness. Our friend comes riding down the road – and lo and behold, it’s our very best friend from when we were a child!

We open our arms to him (feeling somewhat confused now; he’s bigger and his face is broader, and he’s riding a motorcycle, not a bicycle). He stops and looks at me.

He knows who I am – but does not care. He is not the same kid anymore. He doesn’t even live here (and he won’t; they moved soon after us due to a death in their family). He stares. I say “Hey.” He says “Hey,” back.

We are two total strangers.

Same dream, different time: the houses have all changed. Some of them have been built up into huger houses. The road is paved. Everything and everyone I know is gone. Everything seems busy, the yards are all fenced. You can’t walk on the road for the traffic. Crime is high.

In every one I feel that overwhelming sense of loss. “Here” keeps on changing – and I’m sure it will (‘here’ being Germany when I was thirteen), and yet there seems so unstable in my mind . . .

Could it really be true? I started wondering. (This is “13” here.) I could feel my inner child; the inner one: Little Michael & Little Mikie – moving in me, wondering, too, at the dreams I was having.

I went and asked my dad.

He said don’t worry about them. And I didn’t. Or at least I tried not to.

A few days later – or it might have been a few weeks later – I asked my mom.

“Sure,” she said. She was in the kitchen looking around for something, I think it was lunchtime or so. “Everything changes.” She turned around looking at me directly. There was a firmness in her mouth; the lines.

“You mean it won’t all be the same?” I could hear my inner child asking me and so I asked.

“No, of course not,” she replied, turning back to the counter messing with something. There was a large transformer on the counter. It powered the skillet from the German electricity voltage, which was set too high for our appliances. It started to give a big hum. I knew if you lifted it and dropped it a bit – not much! -it would stop humming. Usually. I ignored it and turned back to my mom and my ‘stuff’.

“You know the next door neighbors have left,” she pointed out. “Their momma got remarried not long after we left. And the Smiths are here in Germany.” They were the ‘other’ military family in the hood. There were just the two of us: us and them. The rest had regular dads that came home lots of times; ours didn’t. Sometimes he’d be gone for a loonngg time and we’d have to write letters to him. Sometimes those letters took six weeks to arrive, and just as long to get back. It was the same thing ‘overseas’ – all those letters we’d written took six weeks to ‘get there’ – and get sorted out – and then another six weeks for them to be sent ‘slow ship’ back. Even airmail was slow back then. And phone home? Just forget it. One phone for thousands of people – you had to schedule that stuff.

I wondered about it, what it would be like back home – if we did come back and find it all changed. I wondered a lot as the time grew closer – as November moved in and we were in our last year and ‘stuff’. Having just lost our best friend . . .

In our mind’s eye we started seeing: this was a dream that could come true, this nightmare and ‘stuff’ – meaning the feelings and horrid emotions that went with loss, grief, anguish, loneliness – and this staring-you-in-the-face despair that no matter what you do you will flounder in loss.

And yet our inner child held onto that dream – still does; I can see it in his shining face with his memories of sunshine and running into the wind across the white sand, the cloud puffed sky blue, the sun warm on his back, and the excited calling of his friends ahead; bare feet pounding on the road . . .

He had hoped and hoped that when ‘we’ came back and he came back he could get rid of this thing: all of these ‘false feelings’ and things which did not belong in the ‘hood. That he could shed those parts; shed those feelings – go back.

But as the old saying goes: There is no going back home. It’s never the same as you left it. It always has changed – gotten smaller, or more dismal, or even more depressing. Or it may be that it’s been built up so that you can hardly recognize the thing – all the old houses may even be gone, or so built up and altered you can’t tell a thing: you have to find your address by the number, and not the appearance of the yard and house.

The house may even be gone, and you find yourself staring at an empty field – one that’s soon to become a parking lot and a shopping outlet . . .

We’ve faced those kinds of things. All too many times in our lives. Moving is good: it changes your experiences, expands your mind, develops different outlooks, understanding, and tolerance. You make new friends (but you also might lose old ones), you find new jobs, new hobbies, new occupations . . .

But meanwhile a part of you in the heart of you keeps on calling for his forgotten childhood.

The one you left behind.


Some notes here; things ‘I’ (my adult sides) find interesting.

(Part 1 of what you could call a ‘Dream Journal’. 

I know my nightmares started early with the 2nd dream I ever remember having.  I couldn’t have been more than four years old.  That’s assuming my 1st dream was a dream not a religious experience.

This dream did come true, by the way.  When we got back ALL my best friends were gone.  There remained only the four kids from ‘next door’ across the road, and one was a very young daughter who, with three rough boys around, was a tiny terror to begin with.  (She’s still quite high spirited.)  The road had been paved. No longer the sand ditches to stand in and wade during the middle of summer, pumping our legs up and down in the cool sand until we sank, knee deep in the stuff. Parents and kids would get a laugh driving by – there’d be four or five us ‘standing’ in the sand like dwarfs, smiling and waving.

All that was gone.  The PEOPLE were gone.  Our friends, the Smiths, were still overseas – and wouldn’t be back for years.  People no longer leisurely drove by and waved.  “Our House” was ‘gone‘, my parents having sold it while we were overseas – and so we moved into my molester’s house – where the septic tank had to be drained before they could use it.  When they pulled the lid it was full of pink condoms, a thick skin, so much that the sewer men were laughing and pointing and giving knowing winks to my parents.  My parents were embarrassed, and I stared out the window (to avoid the stink), also embarrassed, because I had learned about this thing, ‘condoms’, while we’d been gone, and what they were used for – and thinking about ‘him’ and what he did . . . that love, that betrayal.  And where he had gone, my best friend, his younger brother . . . the all of them.  Gone.

And the future to be was dim at best.  At times I could see it turning dark as hell.  A thunderstorm was approaching, approaching in my mind. . . .

And yes, I did see my friend – and it was almost exactly as my mind had said.  Almost down to the last detail.  Except the sky was cloudy, gray.  And he drove off . . . sputtering away, then roaring on that old dirt bike of his, engine roaring . . . I never saw him again until much, much later.

Somehow a part of my mind – I don’t know. Was it trying to prepare me for this? Warning me – or trying to warn – the inner child? (again, I am “13”, or at least a part of me is; part of the adults are doing the typing; though I’ve learned since 7th grade . . . sighing).  We had just lost our best friend; gotta girlfriend, knowing we were going to dump her in a while, within a period of a few months (overseas).  She knew it and so did I.  The relationship was formed because we were bored, I guess . . . just a last something to do, and try to assuage the hurting in my heart . . .

Yeah, I’m depressed. I (“13”) am still sorta ‘stuck’ on this thing – and “the Teen” I built with the alternate personality “The Machine” (tough armor) around him. But it kept him “too much inside” shielded against his own emotions . . .

However, that changed the day The Machine Broke Down.

I’ll save that story for another day.

To Fly


(from Tokoni … 6/25/2009)

To Fly

Back when I was seven or so we had a very windy day, and I talked my best friend into helping me achieve a dream of mine: to fly. Finding an old cardboard box, we begged a roll of tape from my mom, and found an old wooden crate that was as tall as I was. We spent the early morning hours carefully crafting my wings, then I had him tape them on.

With his help I mounted the box, and facing into the autumn wind, spread my arms wide. I could feel the wind pushing against the square brown panels, as wanting to help my dream come true. The wings were wide and long – longer than my arms – and the sky was a cloud puffed blue. How well I remember standing there on that shaky crate, feeling it wobble beneath my feet, my friend standing just a few feet away. With my face tilted up towards my goal, I launched myself into the gusty wind, my heart full of confidence.

And I fell ignominiously into the grass, my cardboard wings fluttering uselessly.

“Try it again,” my friend encouraged. “Try flapping your arms.”

So again with my friend’s help I mounted the crate – and gave it another try. And another one. And another one. We tried taping on more cardboard – then I would stand there waiting for a good strong gust, that promise of flight in the air – and launch myself into the wind.

There were a couple of times I would of sworn that I glided a few feet before falling; a few times my friend would of sworn it as well. That is what kept us going: the idea that somehow, someway, we would succeed in our goal – that finally I would break free of gravity’s chain, and soar into the sky, becoming as free as a bird, a cloud in the sky.

We tried all afternoon. We wanted to get higher – climb on the roof – but my mom in her infinite wisdom wouldn’t let us. Again and again I would launch myself off that old wooden crate, my heart slowly losing hope. By the end of the day I had to concede: the earth had a better grip on me than the sky ever would.

But it never stopped my dream of flying.

 

Strange Dreams: A Child Dies


This is the second dream we ever remember having.  It is one of our oldest memories.  It comes from when we were three or four years old.

Before you begin, we want to ask you: Since when do little three or four year old boys know about Death?  Since when did they know about a tanks and red stars?  And how – oh, pray tell me how – could we have known all this as a child?

How could we have known. . . what it’s like to die . . . when we didn’t even know what Death was?

So remember: this is from when we were three or four years old . . . a young child, a toddler perhaps – oh so very young – and yet it is true.

It is a dream we’ve always remembered.  But then again, that was the game we used to play . . .

Remember when . . . . . . 

                                      a long long time ago . . . . .

The dream opens like a fog; the “fade in” from black to a roiling mist, from nothingness to . . .

The battle opens.

We (he) are in the woods.  There is noise all around us; the woods are ‘clean’ – that is, they aren’t littered with branches and undergrowth.  These are ‘mature woods’ – lots of pines, men running . . . and the sound –

We are standing there in a overcoat – a heavy one, and it is warm.  There is a rifle in our arms, diagonally held across our chest.  It is cold and there is snow on the ground, though in patches it is all scuffed up and you can see the dark decaying leaves.   In front of us a tree has fallen, left to right, the ball of its roots rising high in the air – it is a big one, with twisting roots sprouting from clumped dirt, and there is a dark cavity where it had come from . . . all of this is happening at the same time –

We can see the our breath puffing into the windless air.  It is . . . midmorning some time?  It is not dark, but gray – there is a mottled gray overcast sky hanging overhead, like the clouds we came through in this dream . . .

and there is the running.  I have been standing there some thirty feet from this tree, watching them run.  They are running through the woods in front of me and behind me while somewhere in the distance there is a popping-chatter (that my adult mind constantly identifies as machine gun fire) and a ground thumping, ground shaking roaring clatter.  I watch the men streaming through the woods from right to the left – dodging around the trees, overcoats flapping . . . and I, too, am breathless with dread and fear . . .

I look down.  I see my hands.  They are shaking; white fingers curled around my weapon.   And I know:

The tank is coming and there’s nowhere to run, no way we can run fast enough . . . we must hide.

We are scared, scared out of our mind.

Wide eyed and panicked (we are young, but this body in this dream feels more like that of a younger man – say in his teens or early twenties or so) – we run forward.  We have a plan.  We’re gonna go leap into that hole that the roots have left . . . knowing that the dirt will protect us from direct fire . . . we’re gonna have a place to hide . . .

but as we are dashing forward the tank appears – going right to left – and it’s about thirty feet or so beyond the gnarled fist of roots . . . and its turret is already turning as it is clearing the edge of the root ball . . . I realize we’re not going to make it.  I have seen the big dull red star on its green painted rough hide, but it is too late – as I leap towards the hole, going in feet first, I see something flashing beside the big barrel (which isn’t aiming at me) – and

something strikes me in the chest.  HARD.  For a split second – a fraction of a hair – I can feel myself being tossed back (surprised, dismayed, disappointed, and in FEAR) . . .

then

nothing.

End of Dream.

And there you have it.  I know we (I) – the child I was then (and I can remember this quite clearly, waking up in my room) – must have woken up for a brief second – just long enough to ‘record’ and remember this dream – and that it has stuck with “me” ever since . . .

Strange dreams to have . . . for a three or four year old boy . . .

Don’t you think?

(PS: As always – and given some recent information – we have come to wonder about this thing, this dream . . . originally thinking it may have been a ‘dream of reincarnation’; that is, we were born in Germany about a decade and a half after WWII . . . we always have been a ‘Warrior At Heart”, meaning one who never knew when to quit . . . if you wanna look at it that way . . . or something else.  Perhaps .  . . perhaps we’ll never know.)

It just seems odd, though . . . there are details in this dream so clear – both back then and right now – though I discredit anything I ‘see’ in it now, knowing it can be contaminated by the views and perspectives of adulthood – one with a very creative (and loving! and hurt :(.  And injured) child inside ….

Wishing us luck – and you too, on this thing . . .

This adventure we call ‘the adventure of a lifetime’ . . .

because it certainly is.


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.


(The ‘Back’ Story to this Tale:)

When I was a little boy, we used to play this game. It was called “Remember When”. The other children of the neighborhood (a poor neighborhood in the soft sand hills of Georgia, on a country road, with a scattering of poor houses about) – they taught me this game.

And I think that is part of it: our collective memory goes waaaaaay back. Other children used to scoff at this, my earliest ever memory.

It goes back before I was there; from another house we lived in.

And then it goes back even further, for I remember in this house remembering this dream, this thing. (I was only 4 or 5, my little Mikie says, remembering.)

And it was a beautiful dream; one that has stuck in my heart and minds for over 50 years.  I can see it even now; from way back when, reflected in ALL the mirrors of my personality.  For they know it, too, and voices whisper in my head: It was true.

For this thing that seemed like a dream was like reality as well. I can tell. There is a subtle difference between when I am dreaming, and when I am alone, and when I am among the worlds in my head.

Here we go. Prepare yourselves (talking to YOU and THEM – calling THEM to help me through it – JW)

Imagine:
A small room. It is a military room: antique white walls, well swept floor, no toys or anything.  You are standing at the door, looking IN.  We see a small child sleeping there; no – not even quite a child yet; maybe even a baby. It is small – SO very small.

I don’t think it can walk yet.

The bed is double stacked; its an old Army rack; one bed sitting on top of another.  The bottom one’s mine, the top for my brother; no one’s in, not even my mother, and there’s a golden glow in the room.  The glow comes from a rectangular window set in the middle of those antiquated walls.  It’s got one of those heavy yellow curtains that the Army used to issue; thick old drapes they are.  It is to the left of the bed, that old iron-stead, pushed up in the corner.  The baby lays there, face turned to the wall, laying on top of a blanket.

And then something comes in.

I can FEEL it, I can SENSE it; oh, but I’m just a little boy, you say, only a baby, perhaps dozing, asleep maybe; perhaps I’m dreaming and it’s a big lie.  But no, I can FEEL it in my head, and the baby shifts on the bed, turning to the left and looking up in confusion and wonder.

And then this happens:  and I feel IT, too, coming closer: but this is almost (yes, its true, the voices whisper) – a physical feeling; very real to ALL of us!

The gentlest hands in the world scoop me up … as soft as a breath; I am in awe.  I don’t know what’s happening or who it is.   These are LARGE hands; they fit under my body the way your palm fits under a sparrow, injured and laying in the grass.   And He lifts me. (I will use “Him”, but this a IS genderless thing that makes my heart sing; even as a little baby.)   And I rise in the air, the hand floating me there into the golden light streaming through the window.  Hovering there, I am surrounded by care and a gentle love in that soft glowing.

And a Voice speaks to me, looking down at the baby it holds cradled in those hands.

“I will protect you,” I sense the voice say, but there are no words; just this thing in my HEAD– and I’m not scared.  “Go out,” these Hands say; and I feel a Powerful presence hovering over me, “and experience the world. Have many interesting adventures.”

And I feel LOVE for ME!

This is the first time, we’ve racked our brain for another time when I’ve FELT LOVED (which is quite different from FEELING LOVE!)

For mine was a loveless house, and would remain so for many, many, many long years.

And here we are at the end. The hands drifted me back to bed. Warm, comforted as I’d never felt before – and haven’t felt again until yesterday.

That’s many LONG years folks. A whole lotta time.

I’ve often found myself contemplating that dream – or was it a dream? So many voices are whispering; telling me: it was the truth of it: you felt the hand of God. You were given a life and a purpose to it, to go out and explore and find all there is; you will need to know.

And yesterday while I was thinking; me and them and JW and ALL of us: we understood.

We’ve always known that interesting doesn’t mean “good”, or “fun”. It means . . . everything.

We’ve always known that some experiences are bad, but I won’t trouble you with all that I’ve had; that’s not the purpose of this blog.

Lets just say I was born that day, and have been searching ever since.  I’ve done things that were bad; the others in me agree, we were molested as a child and Mikie remembers with shame.  (He looks at me and us and we, and in his hurt eyes we see the pain ofthis child and the shame that he bears – for it is OURS, also.)  For this poor soul, this small child that begged and traded his body away for love only to be mocked by the ones who hurt him (by molesting, he whispers in that oh so soft voice of his, looking down; barely comprehending the word).

But . . . (soft smile) – I think I’ve been forgiven; the I being all that I am, for now I understand the reason and I’m fine with myself.  I’ve learned to embrace all I AM, even the Beast who drove us to pain.  I embrace them all with scarred arms, results of abuse and attempts at self harm – and I still won’t allow sleeping pills in my house – bad memory.

BUT WE have control: US ALL together, plugging through stormy weather because we know what we carry inside us is the SUN.

THIS is the goal we’ve been working for. It’s not a case of integration; that’s a seductive whore – psychologists and shrinks across the nation, for MPD and folks like me there’s a cure.  It’s called: EMBRACE YOUR SELVES.

And we’ve done it though we’re not even through; there is much more work to for us to do; according to the instructions we’ve been given.

We’ve TOUCHED the CORE, that golden being, that part of happiness and reason for being; we won’t say any more about THIS (the dream).

And that, my DID and MPD friends, is pure happiness.

News at 11:00; see another post on “Embracing Yourself.”
Thank you very much. Elvis has left the building.

JW (addressing selves) wishes to THANK all that participated in writing this; I know it was especially hard for you, little Mikie: (You, the READER: This is the ONLY time that child of mine/ours ever felt love; and up until a few days ago NONE of my parts were able to meet that requirement (M_ tried, but couldn’t FACE the child, for which he is forgiven – and my child has been forgiven for what happened then despite the past.  (shhh, shhh – I hear him ask, asking me about his past; how he begged to be F’d in the A** by his abuser.  Shhh, little mikie: you are / I am; we all are forgiven; you were looking for love lost but still remembered; and remember this: I love you.)  It shall be as it shall be, and as time goes on we will see how this fun party is goin’.

And together (goosebumps rise on the flesh of the BODY): We Shall SING!