Personal integrity

personal integrity is a complicated thing. I demand it of myself, and find the lack of itin others to be very disapointing. I understand that people often tend to mirror what they learned from the people that raised them, and from a young age trusted dishonest rolemodels. This leaves one struggling to rise above the false facade or failing to bother. I recall as I was only 4 years old, during one of my father's attacks, he hwld a knife to my throat and told me I had better say that I loved what he was doing to mw or he would cut my throat from ear to ear. I told him "you're going to have to kill me then, because you can't make me lie.". He laughed at me. I resisted being forced to betray myself, and he stopped thrwatening me... that time. there were plenty of other threats, but not to try to force me to lie. People lie for lots of reasons, but none of them are excuses. If we fail to honor the truth, we dishonor ourselves and others. I qas so badly bullied when my son was born, my mind escaped into depression and chaos. It took me 42 years to free myself from that prison, and I refuse to be pushed back into darkness ever again.

Your "foster mother"

she was your grandmother. She lied to you every day unto her grave. Did she love you? Only on her terms. She kidnapped you at birth She punished me forever. She rewarded my siblings for doing mw harm . She stole mt property at will. She told me my parakeets died ,but I saw them with a flock of sparrows for aeveral years. I wasn't allowed to have anything I loved Paul and George loved me back . They would sit on mt finger and learned many whistles and some words. She did her best to make sure nobody loved me . She did not tell me when you were having your appendix out she never told me when you were hurt . Selfish love. When I drove her back from Florida she rushed you away to keep me from talking with you knowing the cancer was killing her she clung to her lies. She actually let me ride along for your first day of school but when I moved out; she told me "you're not taking Joey with you* I didn't know how she knew I wanted to, but all I could say was "I don't know how I'm going to support myself yet" I had been thrown out because I left before dear old dad could start hitting me again . A good foster mother would never kidnap a baby a good foster mother would provide safety to all of. her charges . a good foster mother would obey the law! Shw said she was asked to go with a man she was in love with to Europe . She said she couldn't rake you away from your father, that was true, she had no legal right to you . I could go on and on but you don't want to hear me..

Sorrow

I am so hurt and angry today.I just don't know what to do. I feel like I don't even matter. public humiliation at the hands of a stranger wouldn't be so bad,but having my own son pretend his grandmother was his birth-mother! He could have just punched me in the stomach. I just feel sick.

Birth of my son

many times I have thought about the circumstances of my son's birth. I have remembered the fear, the pain and confusion. I have been angry for the dangerous conditions of giving birth on the the basement floor. of never being seen by a doctor.of being more of a slave than a daughter. But one thing, something terrible I have tried to avoid thinking about was the danger to my baby. Not thinking only was he exposed to germs, but with no medical supervision, he could have been injured or killed. Not just at the moment of his birth, but also when my father placed him, wrapped in a brown bath towel, into a cardboard box and transported to the trunk of the car. He was in the box inside of the trunk until after we arrived at the house on Henderson Ave. He certainly could have died. I can never forgive that horrible treatment.

anguish

it seems to be eternal anguish.

so, two hours of sleep and then mental anguish. Not a new thing, it happens on a regular basis.

Yes, there is a pill for that, but it does harm of it's own, on top of the anguish. So; no thanks.

When I try to think of good memories, they are always out of reach, far beneath the horrible memories, swirling through my head like black ink on oil and water.

I need peace inside, and it flees from me. I sometimes wonder what peace is.

What my father did to me. What young men did to me. What random strangers did to me. What my first husband did to my children. What my second husband did to me. Who the hell told them it was ok to be horrible beasts?

I never deserved it. Nobody ever deserves it. No baby, girl, boy, child or woman ever deserves it. How can brutality and crime like this run rampant and destroy our lives?

Does it ruin their sleep? I have heard them snoring.

Do they have no souls? I see no evidence.

Their eventual time in purgatory or eternal time in hell is not ever going to restore my life to what it could have been.

I drive home from shopping and feel like I need to cry. There is no crying while driving. I lug my bags into the house and I feel like crying. There is no crying while my dog needs her treat. I put everything away, and just drop onto the couch. Anguish doesn't evaporate in front of the tv.

Throwing a squeeky toy for my dog doesn't eradicate the pain. She loves the squeeky.

I fix my diet meal, and I am only filled with anguish. I can't have icecream. It used to help me for a few minutes. The fat and the inflamation don't help me.

I drop a few pounds, and when I look in my mirror, I see my mother's face. She betrayed me. I don't want her in my mirror. Anguish sends me to eat something.

Physical pain coupled with anguish sends me to bed. Sleep escapes me. Anguish gives the demons wings.

I need to find a way to clip their wings. God help me.

D.I.D.

I know a lot of what is written about Dissociative Identity Disorder [multiple personalities] seems extreme.

In my own experience, there have been compartmented experiences, with the blackouts being either partial or complete.

Sometimes I know nothing of what is happening, in extreme crisis, as my more powerful self takes over, and

something akin to peeking through a keyhole to see what I am doing/saying... as I can only see a tiny bit, and at other times words just pop out of my mouth that I can not control and never thought of.

it has never been like the movies; the 3 faces of Eve for example, and my worst persona

are completely erased since I stopped being a heavy drinker.

I know, a lot of people behave differently when plastered, but that is not what used to happen to me, it was more like being completely out of body, and things I would never do or say occur.

Sobriety is a wonderful empowering thing.

I highly recommend it.

Maybe you have some "missing time" or blackouts in your past and wonder if there is something wrong.

This could be D.I.D.

I saw a photo of myself wearing clothing I have no memory of owning....... and people have told me that I did something I have no memory of.

This has been disturbing, and nobody accepts my factual condition.

Having been badly abused for most of my childhood and having had a series of bad relationships as an adult

is the norm for being one with D.I.D.

I cannot tell how many times my father banged my head into a wall, or the floor when raping me.

I was strangled, and he also used chloroform on me. That was the worst because I would come out of it groggy and confused

with loss of memory for a long time.

Migraines can also be part of the problem, as the really bad stress of trauma can cause blinding headaches.

I know that many therapists don't even acknowledge this situation, so I had to do most of my own work repairing my condition.

I am glad to say; I have recovered most of my memories, and have allowed myself to take a long hard look at my personal history.

I was never sure it could be done, but I have not had any blackout episodes for a few years now.

If you have this condition, keep a journal of what happens, and go back and read what you have written from time to time.

You can improve. You can also be proud of yourself for surviving abuse.

Not everyone does.

God bless

life ponderings

I nearly lost my sight in my left eye back in high school, it went from 20/40 to 20/200

in a couple of days. I was bumping into trees and falling off curbs, and close friends thought

I was snubbing them but I just couldn't tell who they were.

Fortunately, my grandfather Auldridge took me to an opthamologist [my parents didn't care]

and we were able to reverse the infection that was damaging my optic nerve.

That was pretty frightening, I am glad my art teacher, Mr. Fowle, insisted I get someone to help me. I might not have thought of asking my granddad.