Thursday, September 1, 2011

The Plan

Yes, there is a plan.
Stop laughing.

I've scheduled 5 days of entries to post twice a day. As for this blog, I'm keeping a paper journal but have not yet had the energy to transcribe things from there to here.

Here's the basics... I'm working at least 45 hours over 4 days each week at the restaurant. The other 3 days, I have babies and housework to catch up on. I've been in a walking fog most of the last 4 months... but I'm adjusting.

Found out my thyroid is a sluggish and lazy little bit of flesh which seems to be making it a point to sabotage my every attempt to get healthy. I've grown out of all my clothes, can't ever get enough sleep, my hair is falling out and, among other things... I'VE BEEN DEPRESSED. Nice to know one little malfunctioning gland can hit me in every one of my more sensitive areas all at freaking once. *sighs*

But knowing is half the battle. Until we're in a situation where we can afford the rather expensive medication, I'm trying some herbal things and trying to be patient while they have a chance to work.

So, not much of a great excuse for months of not writing but there it is... and at least it's not simply because I was hiding. That's just been a side effect.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

There's Always a Price

In my recent online silence, I've been struggling to poke around inside and break down some self-imposed walls. I'm getting there but find it leaves me a little too raw for comfort... Not that I expected comfort... but jeez.

The sarcasm Machine is firing on all cylinders and I've had to bite my lip to keep from saying wildly inappropriate things so often, it's practically a food group by now.

From Twitter: IAmTheCrew Marisa Feathers
DS1 called me J Bieber. DS1gf said I'm prettier than Bieber. I said I also have a bigger dick. -why I usually have an internal censor.

*sighs* I'm usually much better about keeping such things in my head then giggling after I walk away. It doesn't help that Daniel's girlfriend responded to my comment by asking if she could live with us. *facepalm* It's not exactly how I want to go about keeping my "Cool Mom" status.

My head is noisier than it's been in a long time. The weird part is, it's not the voices that make me think "oh, that's Stephanie" or "That's Reese."... it's the words that make the distinction. It all pretty much sounds like me. I'm not sure I like that. I miss the chatter of the girls but when it's just me I kinda wish I could tell myself to shut the hell up.

Oy, that made no sense.

I'm confused. Where my energy the last couple of years has been (unintentionally) directed at keeping my emotions under wraps and maintaining an even keel... these days it seems I'm too busy feeling to do anything else. I want balance. I need balance.

The only way to find it is to stop shutting myself down, accept the emotions, express them and keep on keeping on. I won't find balance if all I do is teeter from one extreme to the other.

Writing is especially difficult lately. Too much of what goes through my head is judged (by my own weird standards) as too whiny, too angsty, too angry or simply too scattered and confused. I like making sense. I like opening with a hook, saying something somewhat relevant and ending with something that wraps it all nicely into a bow... and that's not happening. It probably won't happen until I let go and let things flow.

For now, I just have to keep trying... however messy it seems.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Comfort of Same

I laugh each time I walk into Crane's office. It never changes. It's like walking into a place trapped in time.

I don't remember what it looked like when I first started seeing him in 2000. I vaguely remember grilling him from a hospital bed during one of several transfusions needed around that time... but the office in the building he shared with a few others is a blank... well, outside of the waiting room and another therapist's dog who hung out there. I was disappointed when the dog didn't join him in the move later that year. I think Stephanie was downright pissed. Somehow, the idea that he had a dog in his office made him slightly more worthy of talking to sober.

In the eleven years since Crane moved his practice, nothing has changed. Occasionally a new stuffie appears on the chair by the door. It's piled high after all these years and the Eeyore we gave him is buried under the top layer. Beyond that and the height of the gravity-defying stack of charts on his desk, it remains the same.

I could close my eyes now and describe the entire office in detail, right down to the placement of the books.

I laugh at the sameness but recognize now the comfort in things that remain constant.

I used to laugh in surprise whenever Lyn would tell me weeks in advance of any change to her office or decor. It seemed silly to me to feel anxiety over something so trivial as the placement of a couch.

Then I walked into the local church-run free clinic.

The community need is so great and the program so new, each time I enter the building it's a whole new ballgame. The procedure hasn't been the same twice. If I went to the clinic on a more regular basis, perhaps it wouldn't be so jarring... but I sat there last night, scribbling this post in my notebook, waiting for the dentist and fighting anxiety because I'd been separated from family. I had to sit in the front row, with Charlie and Becka in the back because they weren't seeing the dentist. Seating people according to their need was a new one and one I hope doesn't last.

My constant wasn't by my side and so the continued change of the program was disorienting and disconcerting. I was so serious about getting out ASAP that if the little old lady who kept trying to pity her way ahead of me kept it up, I was just about ready to lose my Christian Witness.

It was enough to be in such pain and not know if they would be able to help that night... the newness of the procedure was wearing... as was feeling like I had to fight grown-ups over basic concepts like waiting in line and taking turns.

We got there at 4:45. The oral surgeon didn't arrive until almost 7:30. I was the last of the four people they saw last night and it was nearly 9:30 before they could see me. The pain got so bad I ended up leaving Charlie (who gave up his need for mine) in the waiting room while I went to hide in the car. Actual crying is rare enough for me. Doing it in public wasn't an option I was willing to consider, so to the car I ran.

Now it's all over, I can think about how hard it was to get through last night... and next time we go back I'll try to remember that despite the long wait and how different it was, I've never been turned away or treated poorly there.

And I'll take a deep breath and get through it.

But I won't laugh at the concept of sameness again.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

All I Got

Trying to post every day... with limited success.

I've found it takes less energy to feel and process my pain than to suppress it and run away from it. - @brianmclaren, Naked Spirituality

This was posted to Twitter a few minutes ago. How perfect for this situation. I find myself hiding out on the computer playing hashtag games when I should be writing.

Petra refused to believe she was a girl. Her need to hide and be unseen was so strong, she never spoke above a whisper and it took Pat and Charlie ages to convince her she was more than a floating dust mote.

Can't quite figure out what is so difficult in writing about when Reese introduced herself to me.

I could take a drink but I tried that the other night and all it did was put me to sleep.

I refuse to surrender to medicating myself just to write.

But breathing while writing is still pretty high on the list of priorities.

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. *sighs*

Safe Place

When I was a kid, Mum and Dad's room was an OFF-LIMITS place. I can remember maybe two times I was allowed to lie in their bed. Granted, one of those times I raided the hidden stash of Halloween candy... but that's beside the point.

While I understood the idea of keeping the parent's room strictly for the parents, that was something Charlie and I could never put into practice as parents.

When Krys was 18 months old, she decided she was Too Big for a crib. We know this because she spent several nights screaming bloody murder, rocking her crib and generally having a huge meltdown at bedtime. On the third or fourth night, in an act of frustration, I took her out of her crib, tossed the crib mattress on the floor and said, "Fine!" Okay, I wasn't exactly mature at 20.

Krys looked at the mattress, climbed right on it and snuggled up. I tucked her in and all was well. Two nights later, Daddy had turned her standard crib into a convertible toddler daybed. Krys was content.

Within a week, we had a new routine. Charlie and I woke at 5:30 am. Just before he'd leave for work, I would braid his then very long hair. It was around this time that Krys would come toddling in the room, dragging Mr. Bear by an arm or leg to say goodbye to Daddy. For a couple of days, I tried to encourage my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed monkey back to her bed. Pbfft. Soon enough it became standard for her to climb in my bed and we'd snuggle and doze until 8, when I got up for the day.

In the years since, we have spent literally hundreds of nights sharing our bed with little ones. Nightmares, Night Terrors, fevers, stomach bugs and once in a while a case of full blown flu... If they didn't feel well, they came to sleep with Mommy and Daddy... an arrangement that almost always ended up with someone's little feet firmly planted in one parent's back.

It wasn't just kids coming to us for comfort either. After Daniel's drowning, I kept him in our bed for a full 6 months, while I was waking repeatedly each night to check he was still breathing. It was a hard thing to decide to put him back in his crib at night.

John had Pertussis when he was a newborn. Though he was fully recovered by 3 months old, I kept him in the bassinet at the foot of the bed for another 3 months. I couldn't bear putting him in another room. I had to be able to check that he was breathing.

Our kids have always known where to go when they need comfort or reassurance. Even my now adult kids, when ill, will gravitate to our bed for a nap.

I find such joy in this. It's a wonderful feeling to know that when all is not right in their worlds, the kids still know they can come to us for comfort and a sense of security. Our bed has been crowded at times... and these days, I often have to kick out one of the kids to get my nap... but I don't mind.

I just wish they made something bigger than a California King.

Saturday, April 16, 2011




We were waiting for John's assessment for STAR; a day treatment program run by the MUSC Child Psychiatry Department. I needed to use the restroom and change Elena.

I was shown to the restroom with a changing table and got Elena squared away. She HATES changing tables and I couldn't leave her there so I took her back to the waiting room and walked back down the hall. At the end of the short hall from the waiting area, I stopped dead.

The open room in front of me was painted an odd pastel blue. It was a small room, totally bare save the half-ball mirror on the ceiling in the back of the room. The floor was linoleum. The door to this room had no knob... just a handle on the outside and a key only deadbolt. The narrow window in the door was made of meshed safety glass.

Images of all the rooms of this kind I've been in over the years flooded my thoughts. I broke out in a cold sweat.

I can't send my son to this place.

I forced myself to walk to the bathroom but found the door now locked. So I walked back to the Quiet Room and looked again.

I can't count the number of nights I spent locked in rooms like this one, nor the number days spent sitting in the unlocked rooms to "cool off" and stop "acting out".

These rooms were used as punishment. They were used to put you in your place and occasionally to humiliate.

I'm sending my son here. I can't do that.

The program nurse appeared and asked if I was waiting for the restroom. She knocked on the door then unlocked it for me. When I was finished, I averted my eyes on the way back to the waiting room... but when I met Charlie's eyes, I mouthed "They have QUIET ROOMS here". He instantly understood whatever striken look I had on my face.

I busied myself with the babies until we were called back for the assessment... for what I now realized was really the intake interview.

I'd managed to put on the calm, open exterior for this meeting but my head was spinning. At one point, we were left in the room and I dig in my purse for my emergency klonopin (after rachel's adventure, I only keep one in that bottle at a time) and prayed I could settle down.

Up to that point, I was on edge, feeling defiant and challenged. I can look at it now and acknowledge those emotions as stemming from the shock of seeing the room... not from any present situation requiring me to be on the defensive. I think I knew that on some level yesterday too but, again, the rational and the emotional were at war with each other.

We finished the intake and by the end of the inteview and tour of the facility, John was much more positive about attending the program. His reaction to the "Seclusion Rooms", as they are called in this program, was upbeat. To him, having a distraction free place to go with a door he can shut to give him some silence, such a room is his perfect answer to a meltdown.

I can see his point.

I was relieved to find the program has several "time out" steps, allowing a quiet place to collect oneself, before the rooms. I was further reassured by the knowledge they haven't had to use the lock at all this year. (I believe, I believe... it's silly but I believe)

John is not me. John has not lived the life I did. This is a day treatment program and it is voluntary. Charlie reminded John (and me, though he may not have realized) that he still has the veto power. If at any point he feels it's not helping John, we'll pull him out.

Knowing that each day, we will get a written report on how he did, with behavioral homework, was reassuring too. When I was in the hospital, my parents only heard what was up with me when they came to visit.

The teachers are nice, young and upbeat... not the old burned out hippies from my years. The place is bright and cheerful (save those rooms) and the general atmosphere very positive. The students I saw, who range in age from 6-14, were also positive. I was surprised to see genuine smiles. (John said anyplace that gives you candy at the end of the day can't be all bad)

It's not inpatient.
It's not a a locked ward.
He's getting the services and counseling he needs... he's not being shuffled off to a warehouse.
He's not me.

This will be good for him.

If, after a week, he can find nothing positive in the experience, we'll take him out again... but I know John. Even if something pisses him off and his day is a disaster, it only takes a little questioning for him to find what positive he can.

He knows this is therapy. And he knows from Mom that therapy means hard work. But he'll have the staff at STAR and his family.

He'll be okay... and maybe, by seeing an experience so different from my own, I will be too.

Friday, April 15, 2011

I, Me, Us, We

When we got home from the assessment (entry on that coming up), I threw myself into yard work. 45 minutes later, the front yard was mowed and tidy and I was tired enough to take a nap. The urge to plow into a bottle of vodka has abated, somewhat.

It's funny. Yesterday, as Crane was setting my next appointment, he flipped through my chart to the last map of The Crew I did... back in '03 or so. He looked at the map, glanced at me and then nodding toward the chart, he asked "So, how's this?"

I shrugged, never really sure how to answer that question. "Fine. It's all me you know." (even as I said it, it sounded stupid)

"How are they?"

Again, thrown. "Um... It's quiet." From across the room Charlie snorted. I meant to say "No comments from the peanut gallery"... What came out was, "Bite me."

We set the next appointment for early June. The plan is to see him every two months for now.

The session itself was fun. It was more like catching up with an old friend than therapy. Last time I saw him Krys was a newlywed and I had no idea I was soon to hear I was going to be a grandma. Back then we had talked about closing my other diary, taking it offline and my frustration over an utter lack of interest in writing again. We also talked about the Cameron fiasco, from which I and the rest of the family were still healing. I unloaded on him the intense anger I felt for myself for allowing all of the bullshit to go as far as it did.

We also talked about integration... about how for the last year Cameron was with us, what had started as "I'm not her play toy and just because she's your friend doesn't mean any of us have to want to be around her." turned to no longer switching except for extreme situations (which were forced and created by must-be-center-of-attention-drama-whore Cameron and then pointed to as a way to try to manipulate by switching)

When I saw Crane last, I was still pretty full of resentment that instead of gradually and peacefully coming together... that instead of being able to take the time to truly decide if we even wanted total 'oneness', we had to rally the troops and become one just to keep from going insane when she finally took off the gloves and waged open war.

I was still bitter as hell that my family, the ones whose lives had been most touched by The Crew, were denied the opportunity to prepare for and have any kind of reasonable goodbye.

I told him about the night, while washing dishes, when I sought out Stephanie to ask why, for months, there had been no switching... why for those months, the only conversations occurred inside. Her words, which were the last I really heard, stick with me. "You can handle this shit on your own now. You don't need us."

I didn't tell her then, though I wish I had, that I didn't care if I didn't need them. I loved them all and they made me feel complete. I may not have needed them to step in when things got hairy, but I sure as hell liked knowing they were around.

Then standing in Crane's office yesterday... something as simple as saying "Bite me." when the pre-integration I would have said something more diplomatic, was enough to reassure me. Hell yes, they're still there. It's the seperateness... the need for me to 'go inside' while someone else was out... the struggle to maintain co-consciousness... those things are gone. But The Crew... they live on. Seperate enough to see them in my face, my words or my actions... but not enough that we can't all experience life, as it is, together.

Maybe next time I see him, I'll ask him what he means when he asks how they are. Or maybe, when he asks, I'll be able to just tell him.

Friday, April 8, 2011


Was intending to do a companion post all about Levia (The Wall) but can't get focused.

Some of the handwriting from the last few days has disappeared. It was for a post about the first time Reese intentionally talked to the church group and the last post covering Feburary of 1999.

I hate when this kind of stuff happens. There was a time when Reese truly believed that if it was important to her, it would be the one thing to fall apart or be ignored. Seems everytime she screwed up the courage to talk to Lyn or Crane, something would come up and she'd miss her chance.

I can't tell if losing the papers I HAD MY HANDS ON 4 HOURS AGO is part of some self-fulfilling shoot-myself-in-the-foot thing or if it's an irritating coincidence.

On a random note, IE doesn't run the spell check in blogger posts and I'm now consumed with paranoia about the lack of squiggly red lines I need to check back on later.

I asked Pat once if she could help me fill in the blanks. She gracefully and kindly declined... an event that sent me spinning off into the shame spiral until I nearly made myself sick. Being reminded how much my illness affected others... knowing Pat was not at peace with it tore my heart out. I've asked another friend very much involved at the time and am trying to patiently wait for the answer.

It would probably be better to stop flipping out over some lost writing... but it took such effort to wring it from my memory and onto paper the first time. I really don't have the energy to try again tonight.

I could move on... but not really looking forward to the next year of time to cover. By this time in 2000 I was pretty much not talking to anyone from church and The Crew had gone into hiding.

Maybe it's time to screw up my courage and go back through the original blog hard copy. Some of what was written then may shed some light on what's so obscure now.

or I'll have that margarita Charlie keeps offering.

Q and A pt 3 for Frank

Some questions from Frank et al and a few others...

How did you come about figuring out separating the members of The Crew; or figuring out how many there were?

The simple answer there is mapping. That's the term for it anyway. Early, early on, when I was still in the "Oh hell no" stage of acceptance, it was suggested we try to figure out who was there and why. I basically sat at the computer and tried to remember all the different times and places where i just knew I wasn't me. If that makes sense. From there I tried to figure out what triggered it and what was the purpose.

I continued using mapping for several years. As my knowledge of The Crew grew, the map changed. The more they shared about themselves, the better able we were to understand their function within the system.

While I did have help with the mapping, I mostly did it on my own. For all my confusion, I know my mind better than anyone outside it. The Crew helped in this.. but I did have the support of a doctor and therapist.

Do you think it's beneficial if we try this (providing it doesn't involve a white coat...)

The thing about the mapping worked for us because in getting to know them and what their purpose was, we had a better understanding of how to work together. Don't get me wrong, just knowing someone was there didn't suddenly make her part of the team. It took years to convince most of them that working together to heal was the best option. Some refused to acknowledge they weren't the only one. Others quite literally only existed in a moment of time, as if frozen in place... for them, the rest of us (inside and out) worked to free them from that place and bring them to the present. A lot of it was convincing everyone that life was no longer what it was then and it was safe to be in freedom.

I guess it depends on your goals. You are clearly able to function and go about day to day life (most multiples do... the idea of the non-functioning cluster-fuck is incorrect for the majority of us) When you begin exploring inside, stuff gets stirred up. If you don't have some solid support in your life, functioning through it all may get harder... much harder.

How did you come up with ages?

Initially it was gut feeling. So and so was in such and such an age range. As they began to communicate, they gave their ages themselves. Over the years, some of them aged along with me. Others, Like Reese and Stephanie, found an age they liked and stayed there. Stephanie never could see the point of aging past 18 if it meant the world would insist on adult attitudes and behavior. She liked being a teen, thank you very fucking much.

With a couple of the younger ones, we let them "choose" their age. Amelia was 5 when we first came to know her. She later jumped to 8 because that was "big girl" age and where she wanted to be.

For the ones we call "Inside Helpers", they were more or less ageless. They didn't need a number to define their function or abilities. In my mind's eye, Levia always reminded me a bit of a younger, less severe version of the matron in "The Secret Garden"... long, black dress... no nonsense... had a job to do and that was that. But I could never quite look close enough to guess an age... because it wasn't needed.

There are NO rules to DID beyond the criteria you find in the DSM-IV. Certain things have to fit to be considered DID but beyond that, every system is different. The beauty of DID is that you have created within yourself a way to function and survive things that would make others go batshit. It can be whatever you need it to be to get through.

What is the most significant thing you gained from separating/categorizing your personalities?

Less confusion. Plain and simple. It cut back on the chaos. It also made it possible to develop relationships with each other. We were no longer contentious neighbors, existing side by side with different goals and agendas that clashed and made life hell. It added to the stability and made working together a possibility.


Okay, now the stuff scribbled in my notebook last night...

Still on the subject of separating them... I really was fortunate to have both a doctor and a therapist who had lots of experience with DID. Even if it did take blackmail and near force to get me to see them. *sighs*

Some of the girls just were. They'd been around long enough to have developed into completely distinct beings with their own abilites, memories, likes, dislikes, etc... Others emerged as specific emotions or memories came up in treatment.

On the subject of existing together...

There were, at times, groups who were aware of things at the same time. They call this co-consciousness. Having that shared consciousness is a good thing. If we had complete amnesia every time there was a switch, I'd be missing more than 3/4 of my life... at least. Sure, there were times when I lost awareness but it was less and less as we got to know each other.

In my teens, Reese, Stephanie and I existed side by side, though I was not aware of it then. All I really understood was that I was sometimes a spectator in my own body. It wasn't until I accepted them as needed parts of me rather than enemies (and the same for them with me) that we would intentionally work together.

We ended up building sort of a sorority house inside. Everyone had their own rooms and the common room, or where we'd be when we were "out" was the kitchen. If you were in the kitchen, you could see and interact with the world outside my head.

On support systems...

Mine has been pretty erratic over the years. Charlie, being my only constant. These days, I have my immediate family but haven't seen the doctor in 18 months or more and the therapist since 2007 or so. My childhood family are all aware of the DID but I only ever really talked about it with my oldest brother (he passed away in 2007). I took the chance to talk to the rest of the family and while they accept and agree DID is the only thing that really makes sense, they remain guarded against things they would all prefer to leave firmly in the past.

The support in my life now comes from the incredible family of people I have come to know online. Some of these people have been with me since the month I first started blogging in '02. They walked with me through the whole journey.

When my husband was rushed to the hospital last month, my church family prayed and provided meals for the family... but it was through facebook that I had the support that kept me from crumbling in my what ifs and fear. Of my best and most trusted friends, the nearest one still lives some 500 miles away.

Something I wanted to clear up about The Crew's blog...

Only the entries that have italicized notes at the top were written before I restarted this process a couple of weeks ago. The period from 1998- June 2002 has been largely a blank to me. Going back to those early years and acknowledging them is, for me, part of laying the past to rest and completing this journey in recovery.

In your We Freak Out post, you wondered why I had so many and you so few and if you were normal.

DID isn't that simple. There really are no rules. It's your mind and it functions as you need it to. Having more or less personalities/alters/states of conciousness/blah blah doesn't make you or them more or less real. You are.

I've known people who continued to split well into adulthood. Chris Seizmore (of Three Faces of Eve) never had more than 3 at a time... but every few years, the three would "die" and three others would take their place. She's in her 70's or 80's now and still living as a trio.

I didn't want to live like that. I didn't want to be defined by my brokeness. I refused (once I knew I had the power to do so) to create someone new with every new overwhelming crisis. I could have. It would have been easy enough to excape myself that way... but I wanted to heal.

You are no more or less normal than anyone with DID. You are unique in who you are and in how you have dealt with the shit in life. That's okay. The few people I've met (and you'd be surprised how many) who fit some cookie cutter mold of DID were usually Munchausen by Internet. Their mental illness wasn't DID... it was their compulsive need to be interestingly
and attention grabbingly sick.

In other words, screw normal. You are the person and people you are because that's how you kept from going hopelessly insane when you were a kid. You utilized the most intelligent and creative coping mechanism there is. Yeah, it ain't exactly healthy or easy... but you've gotten this far because you were born with a special set of gifts that enabled you to grow up and not become a sociopath.

We are highly intelligent, creatively gifted and imaginative people. That's not normal, with or without the DID. So again, I say screw normal. I don't want it.

Hope this helps.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Q and A pt 2.

I'm going to assume that the alters that Tara had are kind of generic alters that most multiples have. Did you have an equivalent of Buck, Shoshana, etc? I'm assuming that "Chicken" is like Amelia/Roo.

That was one of the things that initially irritated me about the show. The alters are all extreme examples of 'categories' and the wardrobe change for each switch annoyed me to no end. But then I remembered that early on, I changed my entire wardrobe to consist of jeans/khakis and t-shirts/polos to prevent everyone having their own set of clothes.

Stephanie is a protector. On the show, that's Buck. Someone to manage and feel the anger, hatred and don't you dare fuck with me stuff.

No Shoshana, though I can't quite figure out a 'role' for her. The only ones primarily functioning in logic almost never stepped outside of me to share it.

and yes, Chicken is a little.

I still need to add basic 'categories' to the glossary on The Crew. Add that to the to-do list.

Max reminded me a lot of Charlie. I hope that is a fair comparison. I immediately loved Max.
Minus Max's infidelity (or Tara's for that matter) I love Max. He is Tara's Charlie. When you get to the last scene of season 2, you'll cry. It's almost an exact recreation of a conversation Charlie and I had early on.

Did any of your alters get into fights/dislike any of your family members? Kate and T get into a physical altercation the one time. Buck consistently makes homophobic remarks towards Marshall. Did any of your alters act like that towards Charlie or any of the kids? Did any of your alters have the hots for your husband? (Like Alice/T/Shoshana did with Max?) Likewise, did any of your kids dislike any of your alters the way that Kate disliked Alice?
Reese and Krys had a few disagreements but nothing violent. Stephanie took no shit from my kids but never raised a hand to them. After we got past the whole "These rugrats are NOT my family" thing, Stephanie pretty much lived as protector to them as well. She once reamed a school psychologist for trying to stick Daniel in a box labeled learning disabled.... and she did it in front of 5 other people.

I had no one like T. No hyper sexual alters... okay, not strictly true... One part (not around long enough to have a name) did try to seduce Charlie... and Pastor R and Doctor C but never got anywhere. Eventually, she understood sex wasn't affection, it wasn't a tool and my husband is so completely faithful he wouldn't even TOUCH another part of me in a sexual way. To him, it would have been cheating.

The kids didn't all like everyone in The Crew but it was mostly Stephanie that pissed people off. She wouldn't take crap form the kids. Stuff they got away with when I was out never flew with her and she had no problem calling them on attempts to play with Mom's head.

How did you explain the whole having DID thing to your kids? I was struck by how immediately the kids/Max were able to recognize the alters and sort of not react. Is that accurate?
The first part of this question will have to wait. It was answered in the original blog.
Yes, the family got to know several of The Crew well enough to know just by the look on my face. It was only Reese, Stephanie, Amelia and Suzie who built relationships with any one on the family besides Charlie... but the kids knew them and knew them well. They did learn not to react to switching. It was what it was and they went with it.

What sorts of things trigger a transition? How often did they happen? Did you ever have family meetings like the Gregsons did to sort of catch up on what you did?
Family meetings, yes... for awhile until I began to share more awareness with them.
Triggers could be anything. Tara does it pretty accurately in that switches are usually triggered by an event or emotion that is too overwhelming to handle alone. Switching happened more times a day than I can count sometimes. There were times someone would be out for days and other times when I didn't switch at all. The only times I went for a long period without switching was because the girls were all hiding in reaction to thinking if they 'went away' my life would somehow be easier.

As we learned to work together, switching leveled off to a few times a day. We tried for a long time to make sure everyone had whatever time they needed.

I loved, "Then Buck came out and...I kicked some ass?" hahaha
In my case, with Stephanie, it was usually "Oh shit. What did she do now?"

Did you have co-consciousness? Was it as if you were out of body, watching one of the others do something? Are two alters ever able to talk to each other and be "out" at the same time?
Yes, yes and yes. Stay tuned for answers and examples to be posted in the other blog.

Is it possible for one alter to be "called" out? Like, if Reese was out and you got a phone call, would she come get you?
Yes. It took practice and at first I hated it. I felt like a freak in a sideshow. I hate, hate, HATED switching in front of anyone not family.

as an aside, when John was 5, we found out that whenever he didn't like my answer to something, he'd call out Amelia and the two would do whatever they wanted until I caught up.

If you had a meeting or something to go to, were the alters aware that the body belonged to you and that people expected you? Tara's alters refused to respond to the name Tara.
Yes, later on. Early on, heck no. There were a few people to whom Stephanie and Reese would refuse to answer to Marisa.

I found out a few years ago that my best childhood friend knew Reese and Stephanie both. That was incredibly freaky to find out long after the fact.

It took the first 2 years to convince everyone it was better to work together than not... but for most multiples, I'd wager that most alters go by the body's name when necessary. Part of the point of multiplicity is to keep the memories and the existence of others a well guarded secret. If they all run around identifying themselves, that can't happen.

I guess sort of piggy-backing on that, did your kids' friends know about your DID? If they were over, and one of them called you Mrs. Feathers while Reese or someone was out, would she pretend to be you or insist on being called Reese?
Some of the kid's friends knew. Most of them didn't. It was such a normal part of our family life that Daniel's kindergarten Mother's Day card to me included a mention of the littles.

We did try to get the kids to not make it public. These days, I don't mind who knows.

Were your alters noticeable to others? If a friend of Krys was over and Reese was out talking to Charlie, would they be able to realize it wasn't you?
It depended on how well the friend knew the family. Our next door neighbor when we first moved into the old house figured it out pretty quickly. I ended up having to explain it to her.

Hope that helps and no, I do not think you're being nosy. :P

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Why Now?

I've been tossing this question around since I made the rash decision to embark on reopening our old blog. So much so, I put in a call to Dr. C today to schedule a brain check. Haven't seen him in well over a year so it's time to have the neuroses changed and a general check up, just to make sure I've not COMPLETELY FREAKING LOST IT!

I'm really wrapped up in "what ifs" right now. What if this is too much? What if I turn into the zombie who spends every moment at the computer again? What if the kids end up living on PB&J because I'm too wrapped up in me to remember trivial things like food? What if this turns into a big blog? What if I run into some asshole like the Abnormal Psych Prof on "Tara"? What if all I can manage in the writing leading up to where the old blog began comes off looking like a caricature? What if I've identified as many for so long that I'm bored with just being plain old me (DON'T LAUGH)? What if someone reads the really triggery shit at the beginning and it totally and utterly screws them up? What if the only way to fill in the blanks of those first years requires actually ASKING Stephanie, Reese or Amelia? What if pushing to do this makes me crack all over again? What if all this shit matters to somebody and makes a difference?

I could go on. I'll spare you.

And maybe try to answer some of these for myself.

The big one is what if I have to ask them for help? It's been rolling around in my head for days and I sucked up my courage and posted a tweet about it earlier. What if I'm not whole enough?

Dancing around it I kept coming back to the quick and dirty definition of dissociation. It's self-hypnosis. All those days (weeks months) I spent sprawled across my bed fighting the noise, I was letting myself go, even if I didn't realize it at the time.

Stephanie, Reese and Amelia still have memories I don't. Stephanie has all of them. Had. Has.

I have a hard time, still, referring to them in the past tense. I know they are there, even if not separate because I see and feel them all the time. There is a reason Floppy still lives on the bed. There is a reason it took me weeks to convince myself that all the little's toys should be inherited by the grand children (okay, most of them). There is a reason certain things still intimidate me to try. Reese was the artist. She could draw. My stick figures look deformed. What if I didn't get it when she blended with me? I didn't get all the memories.

I know what Crane would say... "they are all you". and to that, Stephanie would say "fuck you."

I asked Charlie once what would happen if I split again... if life got too hard to do it on my own... if I needed to hide and let someone else deal with life for a little while?

He said, so be it. You're you no matter what.

I was not comforted.

I'm terrified of breaking again. Sometimes it's even an attractive idea. I miss Stephanie's cleaning sprees when she finally stopped pouring her anger into alcohol. She could clean AND get the kids to help without bloodshed. She could organize like no one I know and I don't seem to have inherited that ability.

Crane would say, it's all there. I just need to learn to access it.

So back to the self-hypnosis thing.

Quiet time in this house is at a premium. Quiet time when I'm awake enough to make good use of it is even harder to find. Today, I grabbed my notebook and hid in Rachel's room for a few hours. I threw myself across the bed, closed my eyes and practiced breathing until the what ifs started to drift away.

I asked myself, since Charlie was NO help at all today, what happened the night we told him? And I stayed there, totally absorbed in my mind, and waited for the answer. The best way I can describe it is that it's like looking into a pensieve. It's a mass of swirling, foggy memories. But if I can relax enough to take a look, it get clearer.

So maybe the dialogue isn't word for word... but it was there. The memory. There are others, that I wasn't precisely there for, that I can see clearly now.

Maybe asking them for help is as simple as letting myself relax enough to listen to my own brain.

And why would I want to do that?

It's time. For once and for real and for crying out loud it's about freaking time, it is time. As much as it's taking out of me, with every entry I come to peace with a little bit more of the past.

It never made sense to me that after all this, the part of my life which terrifies me most is those first couple of years getting to know The Crew. Seriously?

John made a comment about The Crew being the best friends he ever had. Mine too.

The Crew made it possible for me to survive long enough to meet Charlie. They kept me from stubbornly staying on those railroad tracks over night if I had to. They kept me alive when I was ready to quit. They made life interesting in a variety of ways. They opened up the doors to my past and shared with me the truth about something I was afraid to know. Were it not for The Crew, I may have lived my whole life believing my dad did something I know damn well he's not capable of doing.... thanks to 'professionals' assuming everything started with incest. Morons.

It's time to go back and look at that time because they've been my first and best friends my whole life... even when they weren't. It's time to go back because when we did become one, our family was still reeling from the fuckosity of C&K and no one really got their closure. My family deserved and deserves their goodbyes. It's time to go back because The Crew deserves to be thanked, remembered and recognized... never, ever forgotten.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

"You need to know that you've been through this and come out on the other side. Yes, it hurts to write. It hurts as much as it did then. But can't harm you anymore."

Thank you Charlie.

You're right. It might hurt. It might feel like being right back there... but I'm not. I'm here. I'm safe. My family has come through with me and we've done better than survive it.

We are where we are because of where we've been. Yes, this will be exhausting. Yes, the old headaches... the ones I used to associate with trying not to switch, they will come back as I fight not to succumb to the emotions this creates... but I'll learn to cry again. Charlie is here to listen and there's no reason to keep it from him. He's a good Wooden Indian and able to sit quietly to listen, then hold me when I've worn myself out in the telling.

I am not doing this alone. Charlie, the kids (who are wonderfully supportive) and friends who have walked with me through the journey are all still here. God is with me and is my strength when I think I can't do it.

With that kind of support, I can't honestly see that I can fail. Even if I fall, there are loved ones to catch me or to help me get up again.

A friend wrote today about the simple value of remembering to breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Keep writing.

And Not the Good Kind

The hardest part of writing is the echo of emotion it brings with it.

Pushing through labor pains is easier than this.

It's fine when I'm composing in my head but the moment I sit at the keyboard, it's the shakes, the tight chest and the stomach knots that make my priority continuing to breathe... not writing.


Someone asked about the therapist I was seeing when the last split occurred. It's at least as important for me to acknowledge it as it is for anyone to read about it.

One day it won't hurt to write about my life. Today is not that day.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Second Guessing

I've managed to ignore the existence of this third season of United States of Tara until an insomniac channel surfing attack tonight. Tossing crap around in my head I've done my best to ignore for 12 years... Wondering if I'm doing the right thing... Do I have the energy and support to really look at that first nightmare year?

Okay, support I know I have. Energy is iffy. Intestinal fortitude? Not so sure.

In the middle of all this, with Charlie blissfully sleeping by my side, I remote flipped right into a discussion between Tara and her husband about her going back to school. "I don't want to be known as the woman with DID." That was a gut punch. Then she made a comment about "finally being able to contribute to this family" and the response was physical. I literally curled into a ball, hit mute and tried to talk myself out of sneaking glances at the closed captioning.

Yeah, okay... self-control still not high on my list of strengths.

At some point here I need to...

You know what? Forget it. I'm not going to try to write what's going on in my head right now. I'm going to go wake Charlie and tell him.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Depth Peception

I've long been known to have a tendency towards jumping in with both feet. I don't test the depth, even in murky waters. I like to take a running leap and cannonball right into it.

Needless to say, this occasionally gets me in over my head.

Hey, at least I've learned not to dive in. A person can only take so many concussions or total breaks with reality and keep swimming, you know?

Having finally pulled out all available writing in the subject of The Crew, including the rather scattered notes kept by Pastor R and Pat back in '98-'99... I'm reminded once again that it might be a good idea to occasionally stop and check the depth of the water.

Initial plans to post up to 4 entries a day will simply have to wait until I reach the actual online diary portion of writing. Everything else is so scattered. There are fragments of my own hand written journals from 1999, early attempts to identify the alters, scraps of notes from me or Charlie to The Crew. What I do have to paint a picture of the time when The Crew finally began to emerge and be recognized is some writing I did in an effort to look back. I think it worth posting those next, if for nothing more than continuity.

Having looked over the first 6 entries.... several times... I like that I can acknowledge I may be ready to do this but not organizationally prepared and find it funny, not a reason to lock myself in the bathroom or hurt myself. To be self-deprecating not self-flagellating is still new enough to be kind of awesome when I stop to think about it.

I hope I never, ever take it for granted.

One of these days, I'll learn to test the waters. Or not. Life would get boring if I always knew what I was getting into.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


I see an influx of writing, the likes of which haven't been done on 4 years, on the horizon. Be warned. :P

Thought it would be a good idea to answer some questions raised in the previous entry's comments.

Black Rose said...
Marisa, am I correct that this was the doc that when you came back to yourself in the fetal position on his floor, he told you to (paraphrasing your paraphrasing here to the best of my memory) suck it up, or to quit playing games and "pretending" to be a little kid?

The doctor I was seeing in late 1994 was the first treatment I'd tried since moving to South Carolina in 1991. I saw Larry (an intern working with a psychiatrist) from 1990-1991. This doctor was between Larry (the one who told me no more) and the doctor who eventually led me to Crane and Lyn.

Jarred said...
Black Rose actually brought up something else I'm wondering. Right now we're reading entries from 1994. What was your relationship with The Crew at this point. Were you aware of them yet? Had you accepted their existence?

My relationship with The Crew at this time was non-existent. The event Rose brought up was the day The Wall (later known as Levia) came up to completely separate me from them. There were moment when there was some cross-over... but I'd taken Larry's words to heart and decided the whole "inner child" thing was nothing but more trouble... I think I'd even convinced myself it was probably more of a spiritual issue... and being one few accepted as real, that was all the more reason to ignore it entirely.
When the wall went up, I did my best to forget them for the next 7 years. These 6 posts were written at almost the middle point between the day I split again to create The Wall and the day she stepped aside and allowed the others the chance to speak.

Pause, Process, Proceed (Companion Post)

Fall 1994 Entry 1
Fall 1994 Entry 2
Fall 1994 Entry 3

The first thing I notice in the journal entries from 1994 is the language. For me, it was extreme and probably the only way I could express both my anger at God (wasn't becoming a Christian supposed to solve all my problems?) and the depth of my feelings at the time.

It's also obvious the depth of self-hatred I had, which still makes me squirm all these years later.

What really gets me though is how completely I was living within emotion. I can look back now and acknowledge that while emotion may always be real, it's not always honest. I am not, nor was I ever, the complete waste of humanity I so deeply believed. Even when not in the throes of a Major Depressive Episode, this was a deeply held belief and it seemed certain that eventually everyone would figure this out and I'd end up alone. I can't pinpoint exactly when I finally accepted my own value as a human and a child of God... to be honest, it's still an occasional struggle. But it's been years since "You're a shit" has played ad nauseum in my head or since walking past a mirror brought with it the compulsion to curse my reflection.

There's hope in that. Granted, brain chemistry may never change and Depression may always be something lurking and ready to strike... but I can honestly say the tools to fight it are there and fight it, I do. It's nice to see the difference and know, not simply feel, it's a battle I'm equipped to fight.

One thing in these writings I'm proud of is the level of questioning there was for the theories of the "doctor" I was seeing at the time. It didn't take me long to realize he was a fraud and even more self-involved than I was at the time. I saw him for only a few weeks. By the time my pastor informed me the man was an unlicensed pariah, I was already at my limit with him (though I'd never admit that to the pastor). When I called Dr. M to tell him I would no longer be seeing him, he had the gall to tell me I couldn't make it without him. No kidding. If for no other reason than spite, I managed to pull myself out of that particular cycle of depression within a few weeks. I can at least thank the guy for giving me motivation to prove him wrong.

As uncomfortable as it is to type up and read these past writings, it is nice to be able to look at it without getting lost in it. The lyrics from a contemporary Christian song have been playing in my head as I write... "I don't have to carry the weight of who I was". What a very welcome change from the 'tapes' of the old days.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Full Stop

The Crew

Reposting the blog from Bloop... along with all other diary/journal writing I have.

Prayers would be appreciated. This is a lot harder to follow through than it was to make the decision.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Farmer 'Risa

Realized the other day, while driving home with ducklings in my lap, that I've officially made the transition from Goofball Garden Obsessed to Hobby Farmer. This is the first time in 16 years I've spent more time on edibles in the garden than creating a haven for birds and butterflies.

Not that I've given up that pursuit entirely. It's simply not the current priority. Eventually, the plan is to create an "official" Audubon Society approved Wildlife Habitat here but feeding the family comes before my Cinderella-esque fantasies of singing and dancing around the yard while the birds and squirrels and all of nature sings along with me. Go ahead. Laugh at the mental image. You know you want to.

Okay, so I'm well aware the likelihood of both ducklings being female (I chose the two smallest in hopes of increasing the odds) and therefore, egg layers is 50/50 at best. I may end up with a couple of drakes or one of each which will put a little bit of a dent in the plan to gather eggs for the family. This leg of my journey to reasonably sustainable suburban living might result in nothing more than another couple of pets and some fertilizer for the garden.

But I'm going to keep trying.

Growing vegetables has been a tough task the last couple of years. Depleted garden soil, lack of funds and zero shade in a near tropical climate cooks most plants. Especially if you don't have a well to provide unlimited quantities of free water to keep things well hydrated. I've kept plugging away at it while still mostly focusing on tougher perennial flowers so as not to feel like a complete garden failure.

The prospects are much better this year. The soil in the backyard is richer than I've played with in years, lots of trees nearby will prevent a desert climate come July, while still allowing enough sunlight for things to grow. Our new location also adds to better prospects. Most of the neighbors grow vegetables. There was curiosity about the hay bales in the front yard (best sun) but not a neighbor looked down their nose at what would have been considered an eyesore in our former neighborhood. This means I have more yard to work with, despite being on a smaller piece of land.

The seeds planted a couple of weeks ago are doing well. They've been kept outside which should prevent shock later and I planted more than I need to make sure there will be enough viable seedlings.

Now comes the tough part. The obsessive in me would love to start ordering more seeds and plants online or through catalogs. She would also like to forget the budget and stuff plants into every conceivable space NOW. Patience is not my strength here... but I'm putting on the brakes, looking at the priorities as well as my current abilities and hoping to find a balance between the urban homestead that will takes years to create and the reality of what we can reasonably do now.

The flowers and shrubs currently sitting in pots will give me plenty to do in the months to come and I've taken the steps to, I pray, provide more than snackage from the garden this year.

I'm trying to be patient.

Which means... *sighs* the dwarf nigerian nanny goat will have to wait.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Instinct vs Training

Luna challenged Sugar one time too many today. It happened so fast. I didn't hear a growl or anything... just the rustling of leaves. I had been letting Sugar out front because I knew Luna was too obnoxious for such an old lady. Sugar reminds me of Charlie's aunt "Sister"... the sweetest, funny old lady but she keeps a loaded .25 in her bra.

Sugar is a beautifully behaved, gentle dog... but she's 80 or so in dog years and... she really shouldn't have to put up with a young stud with species confusion interrupting her daily constitutional.

I know the laws of nature. I knew that eventually our animal harmony could tilt. I've seen the warning signs... but really thought they'd be okay if I was out there with them.

Sugar is well behaved enough to be trusted to stay in the front yard. She has no interest in wandering and now we're at the end of a cul-de-sac, there are no dog walkers passing by with temptation to 'check it out'. But today I insisted she come out back with me while I did yard work.

The only thing Sugar has ever harmed was a young rabbit when she was about 6 months old. I didn't even yell at her but she hung her head and kept her tail between her legs all day.

I'm rambling, I know. I really, really loved that obnoxious bird. Muscovys are notoriously bad tempered. I suppose we should count it a miracle it didn't happen sooner.

I've been checking ads for duckings this past week. I want females for eggs. We don't need a male for that... it's possible having birds for a food source (and enjoying as pets) simply needs to come before my grumpy, spoiled full-moon loony bird.

No point in trying to harden my heart and pretend I don't need a good cry. NOT up to the obvious jokes about dinner. Charlie and I were ridiculously attached to him.

I can't trust Sugar around birds again... but I can keep them separate.

Ugh... trying to take a farmer's attitude is warring with my desire to curl up in a ball and cry over my feathered baby.

I'm gonna miss you Luna.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Note to Self...

If you insist on wearing black during the "pollen days", please don't sit on the car.

It reminds me of the Christmas when we made a hand print Christmas tree with acrylic paint on the storm door. I made the inane mistake of opening the door with my butt (my hands were full) before the paint had dried. We never did quite cover the butt print. Made for an interesting Christmas decoration.

At least pollen washes out.

Becka let Elena scoot around on the floor at her house. In her pristine, never a thing out of place, you could eat off the floors house. Elena immediately found a candy coated piece of intense mint gum. We now know Elena does NOT like mint.

The girl's calls to tell me when the babies do cute or new stuff reminds me of when I'd call Mum every time Krys did something new. Nice warm fuzzy.

Oh, and my strawberries are sprouting. *squee*

Monday, March 7, 2011

No way to boil this down to a quote

I left to pick up Rachel from "Othello" dress rehearsal a little bit before Dora was supposed to get her next bottle. In a moment of ditz, I didn't make the bottle before I left.

I'd been waiting at the school for 15 minutes when I thought it was past time to call the house and check on Dora. She was at the house with Charlie (who still can't walk much without getting winded) and her uncles... neither of whom has much skill with babies.

No one answered the first call. John answered on the second ring of the second call. In the background I could hear Dora screaming. John was in overload due to the crying and his inability to find Dora's pacifier with the confusion of all the noise. I asked him to give the phone to Daniel.

I thought talking Daniel through making a bottle would be an easy thing. I'd forgotten how many very specific steps are involved... especially for someone who has never done it.

"Okay Daniel, the bottle should be in the drainer by the sink... *pause* find it?"
"You mean the one without a bottom?"
"Yes. Now go to the cabinet where we keep all the baby stuff."
"Which one is that?"
*facepalm* "The tall, skinny one above the microwave."
"Does she get the Enfamil AR?"
"Nope, the Good Start in the big can. But first you need an insert for the bottle."
"Where are those?"
"Second shelf. Brand new, shrink wrapped box. They're called Drop-ins" *30 second pause while I listened to him rustle*
"Did you put it in the bottle?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You also need the box of cereal. It's oatmeal. It has a picture of a baby on the box."
"Okay, 'cause I thought you meant like, cheerios or something.

Meanwhile, I can still hear Dora raising holy heck in the background.

"Now pour in 6 ounces of filtered water from the fr..."
"Hang on. Dad needs me."

5 minutes later, Dora is quiet. The pacifier has been located and she's snuggling with Grandpa.

"Okay, Mom. 6 ounces, right?"
"Yup, 6 ounces of filtered water from the fridge."
"OH. I was just going to pour in 6 ounces of the formula powder."

Rachel was in the car by this point and I literally face palmed in the school parking lot.

"How do you know what's 6 ounces? Oh wait. Never mind, I see it on the bottle."
"Didn't you know? The moment a woman spits a child from her uterus, she can accurately measure any liquid by sight."
"Ha, ha! Okay, now what?"
"Microwave for 30 seconds."

"What? Just the water?"
"You'll put in the formula after the water is warm."
"Now what?"
"3 level scoops of formula."
"You know, someone needs to come up with some kind of manual that tells you how to interpret what a baby wants."
"It's called Experience, Daniel."
"No. I mean, like, for men."

Rachel and I were on our street by now. I hate talking and driving but these were extenuating circumstances. Good thing we were nearly home. Had I been on a busy road, I might have laughed my way into a ditch.

"Did you put in the formula?"
"Now, and please do this over the sink, pour in cereal until it comes almost to the top."

By this time, we were in the driveway. Rachel moved to get out of the car and I shook my head at her and whispered, "The boy is going to learn to do this and we're not rescuing him before the job is complete."

"Okay, I poured in the cereal."
"Get a cereal spoon and stir it a little."
"Cool, as soon as you stir it, it like, disappears."
"Um... that's because the liquid is absorbing the formula and cereal that was sitting on top of it."
"Oh, yeah."
"Now put the top on. Put your finger over the nipple and shake it about 50 times."

I hung up and went inside. It was only 13 minutes from start to finish but my brain hurt. When I told Charlie about the 'manual' comment, he said "That's called a wife."

Go easy on him... he's still sick.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Must be Menopause

I don't know what it is lately... I've always been almost nauseatingly in love with my family in that gushing, knock me out before I burst into song kinda way. But since becoming a grand mommy, I'm just about disgusting myself. I cannot think of my husband, my kids or those sweet little baby girls without feeling like my heart might very well explode in a storm of rainbows, flowers and peanut butter cups. I get a similar feeling when singing... whether alone or at church... only that's more choruses of angels, flocks of doves and Agape dripping like honey from everything.

I hope you're drawing a good mental picture here. Seriously, I'm usually the sort of person who wants to smack reality back into those hyper-cheerful sorts who can find rainbows in a shit storm... and then I look in the mirror and realize what I have become.

I realize that were it not for a finely honed self-control (and finely focused too as it doesn't appear in many other areas of my life), I'd be that woman at every social function who people try to avoid engaging in conversation lest she regale you with tale after endless tale about what her way-more-precious-and-smarter-kids-than-yours are doing.

When the thought hit me today that if only I could get a television crew to secretly tape my family for a week, I'd have a year worth of great video clippage to share, I suddenly understood... I've gone over the edge.

No less than 10 times in the past week, I have lamented the fact that the only time anyone in the family is willing to be videoed is when they're aren't being their natural, random selves. I want a wireless lapel camera/mic set up... if for no other reason than to show their kids what they were like.

But alas, they freeze on camera.



Monday, February 14, 2011

Such Sweet Romance

In honor of St. Valentine's Day, here's John's favorite family story.

Charlie and I were married in August 1986, just a few months into my 17th year. Our choice to marry, despite my young age (he was 26), was made in part because we knew we were meant for each other and in part because we were trying to be "Good Young Christian People" and could no longer keep our hands off each other.

Incidentally, this is back story and not part of what John likes to hear. This bit would have him dramatically dry heaving and claiming we're destroying his innocence. He just likes the hear the water bed part of the tale.

Due to my age and rather tarnished mental health history, my parents were understandably... less than enthusiastic about the idea of Charlie and I getting married. To their credit, they did show loving support, bought my dress and hosted our reception. They were wonderful about everything.

Well, almost everything.

Mum made her feelings very clear on the eve of the big day when she sat me down and reminded me she expected I would finish High School before even considering children. I told her we were planning to wait a couple of years and not to worry. She responded with "I don't think you should even practice."

Mum's futile hope was further driven home when I opened her wedding gift to me. It was a lovely, cream colored, floor length, satin nightgown... complete with longer than necessary sleeves and an almost Elizabethan ruffled lace collar. I'm pretty sure she hoped charlie wouldn't be able to find his way past it.

Now Charlie, in his bachelor years, had decided to celebrate his freedom from a twin bunk bed by purchasing a king-sized free-wave water bed. He outfitted this bed with the finest satin bedding set he could find. Despite occasionally having to chase down pillows like a bar of wet soap, he enjoyed the gently rocking slumber in his silky nest.

About a week into our marriage, I decided, out of respect for Mum's thoughtfulness, to wear the "Nun's Pajamas". I prepared for bed in the master bath while he used the bathroom down the hall. Still in the honeymoon haze of twitterpated fancy, I slid under the covers to await my loving husband.

Okay, this is where John starts to listen...

Charlie came into the room and stopped just past the doorway with an intense look in his eyes. I imagined he was looking at me with the same gaze of new love I felt each time we were in the same room together. I totally missed the twinkle in his eye as he took a great leap from the doorway and cannon balled onto the bed.

In a micro-second, an evening of fairytale romance became slapstick routine as the wave of water rushed at me and launched me up out of the bed and into the wall before my shocked limbs could even begin to flail.

I wasn't hurt, beyond the dashing of my girlish fantasies... and Charlie was appropriately abashed until he was certain I was uninjured... but the next 20 solid minutes were spent glaring at him while he laughed hysterically. The next several hours and even days were punctuated by his sudden giggles and exclamations about the look on my face.

Within days, we had a cotton bed set. If I was going to smother him in his sleep, I wanted a pillowcase I could hold onto.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Department of Redundancy Department

I love my family.

Obviously, I also like stating the obvious.

It's a weird mood tonight. After weeks of stress and deadlines and worries and viral ick run amok, we've had probably the first truly relaxing day in a month... and I'm a little giddy.

Charlie just trimmed his beard and mustache and it reminded me of a snippet of dream from the other night... so I ran to tell Daniel (the subject of said dream) about it. He was, as usual, attached to a gaming remote with John working in clay beside him. Rachel came into the room as I launched into "Hey, Daniel. I had a dream about you. You'd grown a mustache and (really ratty) goatee thingy and I was trying to talk you into letting me help you trim the mustache."
"Because half of it was hanging over your lip and the other half was too short. I think I said you needed to not close your eyes when grooming your facial hair."

This turned into one of those moments where everyone in the room is talking over everyone else and laughing loud enough to shake the windows. While Daniel took a little good natured teasing (refusing help from anyone is total Daniel MO) I realized how very Mrs. Weasleyish I sounded in my own dream which then reminded me of past conversations with friends in which I have been favorably compared to one of my favorite fictional moms ever.

But the laughing... that's my favorite part. It's one of the reasons the kids still, after all these years, love to reminisce about when they were little. It's why John's favorite family tale occurred only days into my marriage to Charlie. It's why, while we have more than our fair share of hugs and "I love you's", I can also walk through a room, randomly call someone 'weirdo' or 'freak', get 'old-fart' or an equivalent in return and we all know it means the same. We're all not only drawn to laughter but seek to create it daily in our lives.

Charlie and Daniel's voices sound more and more the same each day. All of us females have almost identical speaking voices... John laments the fact that, for now, he still sounds like his sisters... but that will change within a year and people will confuse him for his dad and brother on the phone the same way they confuse all us women. But each of us laugh differently. They all look so different from each other and their laughs are as distinct and individual as they are. Each one is a joy to hear... even if it is 2 hours past lights out and I'm dying to get some sleep.

I love the sound of their laughter. I can hear it over any other sound in a crowded room... though that may have more to do with the fact that we're a loud bunch than it does my being attuned to their voices.

I used to be self-conscious and apologetic about my rambunctious and noisy family. It's such a blessing to be over that. I refuse to apologize for my laughing family. I'll accept the occasional correction from older folks who believe we, as Christians, should be more serious about our lives and our faith but will not change. Laughter is a gift. Even Solomon, the wisest person to ever live, knew the healing power of laughter.

Rachel and I were talking earlier tonight... she mentioned that Dora will probably toddle around with her little stuffed giraffe clutched in one hand until she's almost ready for school... much like her mom carried Mr. Bear. Rachel brought up her 'fi-fi', a t-shirt of Charlie's she swiped from our bedroom floor when she was about 15 months old. I remembered when the collar of the t-shirt separated from the rest of the shirt and she started wearing it around her neck like a cape. She said fi-fi was anything she wanted him to be... and yes, fi-fi was a him. Like Ford Prefect's towel, it was her constant and required accessory.

Like most 'tomembry' conversations, this one wandered all over her toddler years until Charlie popped in with a reference to Daniel's toddlerhood speech quirks. He made a comment about how uptight I used to be and I laughed.

"Okay Dear. You weren't the one who had to deal with Krys telling anyone who would listen about how Mommy fed her Baby-Sister-Becca-Rae with her boob, just like a bottle. You didn't have to listen to Becca telling everyone in God's green earth about how Mommy ran over her finger with a shopping cart (middle finger, sans nail extended, "Mommy. chopping carp rum ober") You didn't have to listen to Rachel screaming in the middle of Wal-mart "Don't hit me Mommy!" after getting her hand popped for dragging everything in reach into the cart. You didn't have to navigate a Christmas crowded K-mart with 4 kids while your 2 year-old son threw a tantrum demanding a... truck. (Only he couldn't say 'truck') You didn't have to deal with the stares while he screamed "F*ck! F*ck! I wanna f*ck!"

Of course, both Rachel and Charlie laughed through this little rant... and I realized that particular day was the turning point for me. I stopped being embarrassed by my kids being kids and learned to laugh in the moment, rather than later when no one was staring at me.

One of Daniel's other finer speech moments was the night we went out to a seafood restaurant and ordered crab legs. Charlie said he was afraid the kids would freak that we were eating Sebastian from "The Little Mermaid". That never came up. What did happen was Daniel climbed his not quite 3 year-old body onto the table to announce to the entire establishment that "I like crap! I like to eat CRAP!"... That was also the night Rachel realized that a mid-pout head slam isn't guaranteed to hit padding (wooden booths) and spent a good portion of the meal with an ice-pack on her head. It was also the night I decided anyone giving me the evil eye for discreetly nursing my newborn son in public would get a wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare, from our entire family, right back. Krys and Becca joyfully discussed the deaths of Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber over their dinner salads.... which I think was the trigger for Rachel's head-banging... and only intensified Charlie's fears over the eventual crab-Little Mermaid connection. I had a sudden swell of respect and pride for my parents who made a point of taking all 9 of us out to eat nearly every month... and the night became one of our favorite adventures together.

13 years later and it still makes us laugh. We don't remember that Charlie and I experienced a level of exhaustion that night that rivals this past week's move. What we remember are the high points... and all the laughter that came with them.

I love my family.

I love telling stories about my family.

I love the laughter.

But you probably already knew that.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Bright, Shiny, New Day

I didn't really want to get out of bed this morning... but once I was up it was wonderful that I'd chosen not to chase after a few more minutes sleep. Yes, I've spent a good chunk of time on FB but I have to do something while waiting for coffee to kick in, right?

My coffee pot died a pathetic death in the move but my mug top filter is a life saver. Not a drop of wasted coffee with this thing and it takes NO counter space.

Anyway, it's wonderful to get up and feel somewhat strong and back to myself again. Knees are recovered, back is almost there and, except for the numbness in my left fingers, my arms and hands are back. I can even take a deep breath again without choking! I wanted to run through the house yelling for everyone to get up and enjoy this beautiful sunny day... but they'd have revolted and I'd have ended up back in bed.

Each day, the changes in getting settled in are visible. Little things and big things. I have to admit, for "As Seen on TV" products, UGlue lives up to the claims. It's nice to be able to put up my decorations and know they won't leave holes in the walls later... plus it has the extra added bonus of being lots more fun than dealing with nails and screws. I have my key chain level and adhesive. I'm ready to DECORATE!

Know what I love about no carpet? There are no fibers to hide when the floor needs to be swept. Nothing to hide the dust, dirt, nasties that get tracked in over the course of an average day. I'm more confident when I can see what it is I'm dealing with, you know?

The house isn't perfect... there are a lot of cracks and crevices in the homemade cabinets that need sealing. The same for corners and doorways where the flooring was laid... but I don't mind doing that. I don't mind the cracked deck or the screen on the porch that needs replacing... and all these little things that don't bother me anymore make me realize I really was a bit of a snob at one time.

This house is in a neighborhood we scoffed at considering during our house hunting 11 years ago. It wasn't upscale enough. The houses were too small and not modern enough. Too much of what looked like possible gang activity... too many cluttered and trashy looking yards. Too much and not enough of I can't even remember anymore.

Now, I see through different eyes and I'm grateful for the difference. After 6 years or so of complaining about Stepford neighbors near our old house, I realize I'm not meant to be worried about status and appearance. My job is to create a loving and comfortable home for my family... a warm environment for company and a place that fits us. I'm not meant to be running around trying to keep up with anyone outside this home. I am not meant to compare myself to the neighbors or even compete with them.

I've also realized there is a big difference between the obnoxious behavior or my overly privileged former neighbor children and the obnoxiousness of the free-range kids on this street. Kids are going to be obnoxious at times... but I've yet to see a hint of "are you good enough for us?" from the kids I've had to ask not to invite themselves in the yard to visit Luna. When I told them to feel free to knock on the door when they want to see the duck, and to ALWAYS wear shoes to visit, they were full of 'yes ma'ams' and smiles rather than the hints of 'screw you' I've seen elsewhere.

I'm not ashamed to admit Charlie and I needed to be knocked down a peg or two. Both of us grew up in situations that left us a feeling of wanting more and more... as if that made things better. Even with that house falling down around us, we clung to it beyond what was reasonable. I can understand why so many people look down on those of lesser means... because in their heart of hearts, they equate what they have and how they live with their personal worth. I'm grateful to be where that's simply stupid and a waste. It's a blessing to be free(ish... I'm sure there is more to learn) of such useless concern and attitude.

It's a beautiful day. Elena is babbling away in her walker. Charlie is gearing up to finish putting the dryer back together. Rachel is at rehearsal. John is doing John things, like inventing stuff from staples (I kid you not) and Daniel thinks I don't know he's still trying to sleep. So it's time to get off the computer, grab another cup of coffee and get back to turning our box and clutter filled house into our brand new and perfect for us home it is meant to be.

Friday, February 11, 2011

He'd Kill Me If He Knew

 I can do this in a blog post... even link it from FaceBook because the person it involves doesn't read my blog unless I tell him it's about him... and I don't plan on it.

I was cleaning/sorting/wallowing in the unpacking process in the living room and found a folded piece of paper. Now in my defense, what was on this paper would usually mean it's folded in such an intricate way that I'd know on sight not to read... but since it was just your standard folded notebook paper, I felt free to investigate. Picture, if you will, clear middle-school girl script complete with bubbles and bowling balls where dots usually go. The following is the note I found:

Dear ***-*** (a pet name I'd never embarrass him by sharing)
Sorry about tomorrow. But my granny needs me. I need a note from you! Cause I need a little love on paper to take with me. Oh and I will have my world domination plan done Wednesday. (If I'm back by then) I need the note by 5th period cuz my mom's coming to get me.

Love you,

Okay, 'a little love on paper' made me giggle. The world domination plan was enough to make me double up in laughter... I know I'm evil for sharing this but... COME ON! How could I NOT? And, yes, I am going to tell him I read the note and remind him about keeping them off the living room floor where they are fair game. He got off easy with me reading it.

When this kid told me "She just gets" him... he wasn't kidding. World domination? This should not surprise me.

Ah, middle school love. Is there anything that can compare?


Tuesday, January 25, 2011


Yeah, so nothing has changed in the last year or so except that S***** is now parroting more and more of her husband's moronic conclusions.

Example... last year, I stated God is big enough that He doesn't need me to defend Him. (ie... be a bigot and bully on someone else's social networking page because a stranger to them states they do not believe in Him.) That's not the same as saying I don't have a responsibility to spread the Gospel. But MY call involves less scripture quoting and more way of life living. The way I see it, quoting scripture to someone who does not accept or believe its validity is like speaking old world French to a Mexican peasant. They might pick up on a few similar words, but over all, you're not going to get your message across. So don't speak. Show. Live. Do. Whenever possible, SHUT UP.

So yeah... here's the last part of the message exchange from last night.

Marisa, M*** did not contact you, I did with M***s blessing. The reason I did this was to make peace with you. The Bible tells us to be at peace with all men. So I simply was doing what God had lead me to do. I was not even making an attempt to restart our friendship, just peace. We both believe that season has passed. I simply want us to be cordial when we are in the same room with each other. God has each of us on this earth to worship Him and spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I'm sorry your views on God not needing our help is what separates us, but that's between you and God. We are praying for you. Love in Christ, S*****
P.S. I will not contact you again since we understand how you feel. 

My Response:

Our views on God not needing our help are not what separates us. M*** is what separates us. Until he learns to be responsible for himself, false apologies are wasted. Keep your apologies between you and God. Neither of you have learned how to be honest. I'm glad you agree we have no need to be in each other's lives. But DO NOT expect me to be false and pretend for others to see.
Thank you for the offer to not contact us again. M*** burned the bridge, I swept up the ashes. Let the dead bury their own dead.

Yeah, I went ahead and blocked her. Childish or no, I will have the last word in their untimely, self-righteous, make themselves feel better game. They (figuratively) came, uninvited, to my door and tried to manipulate their way to an open door. I see no reason to even give them the chance to get a foot in the door.

I had come to accept and admit that I am still angry well before this latest load of crap showed up in my inbox today. I also realized my assumption last night was wrong. They're house sitting for Apostle B while he's out of state visiting another son. They want to go to ACF (instead of drive 30 min to their current church) without having to deal with their own crap. *snerk* or, as has historically been the case, he screwed up Apostle's computer and knows he can't just call Charlie to fix it.

Yes, I'm angry. Still. I know I have to deal with that... but also know that's between me and God. They aren't a part of it at all. I also know I did the right thing in *gasps* rejecting their request. He's a bully. I know now he has no problems continuing to be a bully and he's teaching his wife to follow along. The lingering questions about doing the right thing are gone.

God does tell us AS FAR AS IS POSSIBLE to live at peace with one another (a detail they conveniently left out). It is possible for me to do this by not acknowledging their existence. I know I don't have it in me to let them off the hook. I know I may never reach a place of grasping the minor details involved in loving unconditionally, forgiving as I've been forgiven and still holding my brothers and sisters in Christ accountable for their actions. I'm too honest to BS for their comfort. And like it or not, I will always more easily forgive people who don't share my beliefs because they shouldn't be held to a higher standard than people (who often) act as if salvation somehow makes them superior. We're not called to correct ANYONE else but our fellows in Jesus... and that's supposed to be done in love... not by consigning them to hell for not defending your childish behavior. M*** didn't blow up because I didn't defend God. M*** blew up because I betrayed him by not defending M***. He needs to learn the difference and swallow that massive OMG I'm the shiznit for God pride of his.

I've got a long way to go to find my own peace in this. It's bad enough I still habitually dissociate such things and stuff them in the darkest corner of my mental attic. I don't have the energy to offer them a peace I don't have. If I don't have it, I can't offer it.

And yes, I really do wish I could unleash Stephanie on them. It would make this oh so much easier... until I had to deal with the result. It's when I'm most deeply hurt or this incredibly angry that I miss The Crew the most. It would be an instant emotionally gratifying moment to consider What Would Stephanie Do rather than what my Savior would do.... and would probably inject a measure of humor I can't quite find just yet.

I'll get there. Soon, I hope. I think I'm on too many journeys at once.