I saw a huge black wolf stand in the road, staring at me. She just stood there- and I slowed the car down- and she just stood there. I was almost at a crawl and she sauntered off, into the ditch and beyond. For a moment, I was stunned as I was certain she spoke to me. This is what she said...
“I am a wolf, so what?” She said as she padded across the cold November pavement. She stopped in the tall grass sticking out of the snow, turned her head to me, and said again, “So what?” I sped by. But the look and the moment remained.
“I crossed the road, but I have my own path.” It leads deep into the lonely wood. She longs for something.
“I find prey, I gorge myself. So what?” Fine predator, she is. And scavenger. And thief. Nature is cruel in its circle, ritualistic in its rhythm. She eats and hungers for more, and she sleeps.
In her eye I saw that cool acceptance of her life, that cool acceptance of her hunger. I saw the longing that drives her to her own. Loyal to her instinct, loyal to her pack, she runs along the path hungry.
“I howl at the moon, so what?” A cry of union, a vocal tear dropping into the air, a song of calling. I do not run from emptiness, I fill it with my own tears. I surrender to its mystery.
I am a wolf, so what? I would rather shed a million tears, than have nothing to cry about. I’d rather feel the absence of you, than never know I was alone. I’d rather celebrate my hunger, driven to feed, than blindly starve.
I am a wolf, I say, so what? I will not run from her magic. I surrender to her power, cease fighting for control. It is the life that flows through me, silent and intuitive. I will obey its rules. I am It.
As in all life, I saw her message: Accept. Surrender. Live. And now, be hungry. The hunger moves me along the path.
Turning to the deep longing, rather than away, I discover its echo. I think we see ourselves and god in the bottomless eyes, windows to the soul, of the ones we love. I think this is the magic of connection; we taste and we know we belong, and if we must leave we will someday return. It's a taste of who we really are. It's no perversion of something holy. It is holy.
Sarah's Take - Dissociative Identity Disorder Unplugged: A true and raw telling of the thoughts, musings, meanderings of a woman with a Dissociative Disorder, Sarah's Take takes readers on a little ride through what most people can't really imagine.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Angry
I don't usually write poetry, but I've tried a few times. I really wanted to be in a poetry slam once, and I wrote this one because it sounded angry enough to be in a slam, and was kind of a slam against the slam. I never read it because I was too afraid.
I could write poetry like you-
All pissed off at white man’s
Oppressive culture eating my freedom
Like maggots in a wound.
And the atrocity of war – Big Business
Christian Nation claiming oil under
The sands of heathens.
And the gross injustice of rich men
And women, visible over the layers
Of poverty and disease in Africa,
New York, Superior Street.
But instead, I write angry poems
About me.
Pissed at me for getting raped,
Being a drug addict.
Wasting years and brain cells.
Pissed at identity confusion –
Maybe I’m gay and that’s why
I hate myself so much.
I could write like you,
Throw in a “Fuck” or two.
But I’m busy
Being pissed at how
I’m too afraid to Love.
I could write poetry like you-
All pissed off at white man’s
Oppressive culture eating my freedom
Like maggots in a wound.
And the atrocity of war – Big Business
Christian Nation claiming oil under
The sands of heathens.
And the gross injustice of rich men
And women, visible over the layers
Of poverty and disease in Africa,
New York, Superior Street.
But instead, I write angry poems
About me.
Pissed at me for getting raped,
Being a drug addict.
Wasting years and brain cells.
Pissed at identity confusion –
Maybe I’m gay and that’s why
I hate myself so much.
I could write like you,
Throw in a “Fuck” or two.
But I’m busy
Being pissed at how
I’m too afraid to Love.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Lilac Bush
I transplanted a lilac bush right outside my bedroom window. I dug it carefully out of the ground at my grandma’s. As a child I played in her wild wood, which was also my backyard. She had pin cherry trees, lilac bushes, rose bushes, birch, and moss and ferns. There was a ditch through the whole area, as a child it seemed like a river. Wonderful place to run to. The dream, of course, was to transplant this happy bit of my childhood into my adult life and wake up from restful dreams to the sweet smell of lilac wafting through the open window on lazy summer mornings. The bush is dying.
It’s been thriving for 6 or so years. Every year more blossoms, every year more growth. Two years ago it began to turn brown in the summer, a fungus or rot or parasite. I don’t know the intricacies of lilacs. I pruned. I watered. Last fall it seemed hopeless. By July it had curled up leaves, black/brown, and I anticipated cutting it down. I couldn’t do it in the fall with so much already turning from bright flaming colors to the ash grey of winter. And during the winter months, well, one can hardly discriminate the dead from the sleeping. Now it’s spring, with the yellow green of buds barely coming out to the sun. This time of year is ugly to me, as that which was coldly beautiful in the white frozen winter thaws to dirty life.
My lilac tree has green buds on it. Just a part of it, not the whole thing. It’s sickly. The leaves that dried and curled last summer are still on some of the branches and other branches live with those lovely buds of promise. I cannot cut it down now. But I am terrified to prune. So much would have to go. This branch, with its decay, that branch with its death. Another branch with its criticism of life itself, and the branch whose demons have choked the promise of spring from memory. In the pruning I could kill it. There might not be enough left sustain life. The roots of my happy childhood are shallow and the soul of the tree is not at home. If I begin to cut away that which is dead and that which is dying, the sickness, who can tell me if I might not cut away the soul of the tree? Who can tell me if the soul of the lilac is still not deep in the ground at grandma’s, in the wild wood, where I ran when I was sad?
It’s been thriving for 6 or so years. Every year more blossoms, every year more growth. Two years ago it began to turn brown in the summer, a fungus or rot or parasite. I don’t know the intricacies of lilacs. I pruned. I watered. Last fall it seemed hopeless. By July it had curled up leaves, black/brown, and I anticipated cutting it down. I couldn’t do it in the fall with so much already turning from bright flaming colors to the ash grey of winter. And during the winter months, well, one can hardly discriminate the dead from the sleeping. Now it’s spring, with the yellow green of buds barely coming out to the sun. This time of year is ugly to me, as that which was coldly beautiful in the white frozen winter thaws to dirty life.
My lilac tree has green buds on it. Just a part of it, not the whole thing. It’s sickly. The leaves that dried and curled last summer are still on some of the branches and other branches live with those lovely buds of promise. I cannot cut it down now. But I am terrified to prune. So much would have to go. This branch, with its decay, that branch with its death. Another branch with its criticism of life itself, and the branch whose demons have choked the promise of spring from memory. In the pruning I could kill it. There might not be enough left sustain life. The roots of my happy childhood are shallow and the soul of the tree is not at home. If I begin to cut away that which is dead and that which is dying, the sickness, who can tell me if I might not cut away the soul of the tree? Who can tell me if the soul of the lilac is still not deep in the ground at grandma’s, in the wild wood, where I ran when I was sad?
Wolves in the Distance
A makeshift tent in the wilderness, complete with fire ring and fire, becomes my home away from home. The flames lick my toes and warm them against the cold. I’ve gotten so lost I don’t quite know where I’m supposed to rest my soul let alone where I should next go. I’m a nomad in my own life, not that that’s such a bad thing. Beyond my fire ring I hear the howl of wolves, not that that’s such a bad thing either. The sound keeps me alive in fear and wonder and amazement. The fire brings me hope. Dissociative Identity Disorder is the same – the same as the howl and the tent and the fire. If I think about it, my head gets a little loopy. I can go from holding a loaded gun in my mouth to carrying that wisp of hope one might call integration, another might call salvation, another joy. I feel suicidal and at peace. I think I get lost in despair, only to find someone inside holds great promise and a bright future. I sink into my personal shame and then burst forth with acceptance of my selves and my past. I crawl into my tent after putting another log on the fire, and howl with the wolves.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Soul Inside the Jar
The Soul Inside the Jar
Once upon a time there was a girl who wandered the forest with a jar in her hand. She was young and frail with long thin blond hair flowing in the wind and a dress, just as thin, flowing around her body. Her face wasn't as bony as you would expect for such a small girl, and in fact it was hauntingly pretty. Her blue eyes looked everywhere for the home of the jar's contents. It was important. God said it was important. He told her that inside the jar was a special magical essence called a “soul” and it needed a place to rest. This lovely girl thought of herself as a shadow, and everyone knows shadows don't have souls, so she set about on a journey to find a resting place for the soul. She came upon a woman near a waterfall, weeping, and touched her shoulder. The woman looked up, tears running down her eyes like the water ran over the rocks behind her. The girl saw that she was not a shadow or a ghost, though she had no energy. She wondered if the soul would give this woman energy, and if the woman would give the soul a place to rest.
She held out the jar and asked “do you think this is your soul?” But the woman turned away and cried all the harder, with tears that seemed to wash away her life.
“No,” she said, “it's not my soul. I don't deserve a soul for I gave mine away long ago.”
“Well then, come with me and help me find a resting place for this soul. This waterfall is beautiful but there's so much more to the forest. Come with me, we can always return here when we need to.”
The woman got up slowly. It had been more than twenty years since she moved about of her own free will. Her body was stiff and her muscles hurt. She was tired, but she rose up and followed the girl, curious to see if she could help find a resting place for the soul in the jar. They traveled along a path through the forest, looking for the resting place of the soul, as God had said. Before long they found a demon-man. He was chopping down a tree with hacksaw, and so intent was he on his work that he didn't even know they approached. The girl and the woman were both a little fearful of him, so strong and tall and potent he was. They stood and watched him for a short while, and suddenly he turned and looked at them.
“I felt you! What do you want?” He thundered.
“Do you think this is your soul?” the little girl asked, holding out the jar for him to see.
The demon-man laughed at the question. He laughed until he was crying and holding his stomach. “My soul??!!?” he bellowed. “Do I think that is my soul????!!! I'm part demon, stupid girl. I lost my soul to fire in a time I don't even remember, so long ago was that. It's not my soul, my soul has burned to ashes.” His laughter subsided and a grimace took his smile's place on his red and tough face. It softened a little. “It's not my soul.” he whispered.
“Well, we're trying to find a resting place for it. God told us it's a soul and that it needs a place to rest.” The little girl took hold of the woman's hand, a gesture not lost on the demon-man. “This forest can be dangerous,” the little girl said. “Will you come with us and perhaps your strength and power will scare away the creatures that would harm us?” She looked at the tree he was cutting down. “You can always return to you task when we are done, or you get bored.”
The demon-man looked at the hacksaw and at the tree. He'd been cutting the tree for so long he didn't even remember why he was cutting. He only knew he was compelled to cut and that the job never seemed to get done no matter the force he used or the strength he spent. “All right,” he said, “ I'll come with you. I'll help you find a resting place for the soul in the jar.”
And off they went, down the path in the forest, all three of them. Before long they came upon twins, a man and a woman. The woman was solid and plump, with rosy cheeks and a smile on her face. The man looked just like her, only like a male version, and was taller and thinner. He carried no emotion. He was sitting on a log watching the woman play with some forest critters. She had a few squirrels, a raccoon, and a fawn in front of her, and she was trying to teach them to read. The forest critters paid attention, then scampered about, then came back, then ran off again. The woman just laughed and kept to her lessons despite the antics of her class. It was all a game, and it made the little girl laugh and the woman smile.
The rosy cheeked woman greeted the three strangers warmly, though she was unsure of them. “Well, friends” she said, “what a lovely jar. What have you in there?”
“A soul,” said the weeping woman. “The little girl is looking for a resting place for it.”
“A soul!” The thin man and rosy cheeked woman both exclaimed together. “We were born without souls, and have been trying to earn one.”
“Maybe this is it,” the little girl said, holding out the jar.
The thin man shook his head and the rosy cheeked woman just laughed. “We haven't earned our soul yet, child. We have much work to do before we can have a soul.”
At that moment, the jar began to shake. The little girl, in fear, placed the jar on the ground. She grabbed for the hand of the weeping woman, who grabbed for the hand of the rosy cheeked woman, who took the hand of the thin man, who clasped the hand of the demon-man, who placed his hand in that of the little girl. The were in a circle around the shaking jar, and they themselves shook with fear and even a little excitement. As they touched each other a deep magic began to flow through them, deeper even than the magic of the God who set the little girl on this mission. The magic was sadder than the weeping woman's tears, stronger than the demon-man's strength, more joyful than the rosy cheeked woman's laughter, and quieter than the thin man's emotionless face. The magic was as frail as the little girl and as thin as her dress and as pretty as her face. It moved among them and through them and around them. It shook the jar until the jar began to break into pieces.
All of a sudden, with a whoosh and great beating of wings a number of tiny birds emerged from the jar. The birds flew straight into the air, and around the circle of magic, and in between the soul-less wanderers. There were white birds, and grey birds, and bright birds of yellow and red. There were green birds with orange wings and blue birds that matched the sky. As they flew around the magic circle they seemed to settle, one on each of the wanderer's heads and one on top of each of the trees and one upon the rocks and one for each of the critters that scampered about. The wanderers were holding tight to each others hands and looking up at the birds above their heads as each of the birds folded their wings and fell right into the wanderers themselves! The little girl who thought she was just a shadow became real as she held the hands of the others. The weeping woman whose life had washed away with tears had eyes that no longer cried, but gleamed with a new life. The demon-man found a new direction for his strength, one not bent toward destruction but rather one that protected. The thin man smiled, for his little bird helped him feel happy. The rosy cheeked woman's mouth was wide open in surprise and wonder, for she realized she no longer had to earn that for which she yearned.
“Why, it's not like I expected at all!” cried the little girl. “I don't know if God deceived me or if I misunderstood what He was saying! The jar held my own soul, and yours, and yours, and it was a deep magic that brought us together in this place to release them.” Still holding hands, the troupe of wanderers laughed and cried all together and all at the same time, their souls now resting inside.
Once upon a time there was a girl who wandered the forest with a jar in her hand. She was young and frail with long thin blond hair flowing in the wind and a dress, just as thin, flowing around her body. Her face wasn't as bony as you would expect for such a small girl, and in fact it was hauntingly pretty. Her blue eyes looked everywhere for the home of the jar's contents. It was important. God said it was important. He told her that inside the jar was a special magical essence called a “soul” and it needed a place to rest. This lovely girl thought of herself as a shadow, and everyone knows shadows don't have souls, so she set about on a journey to find a resting place for the soul. She came upon a woman near a waterfall, weeping, and touched her shoulder. The woman looked up, tears running down her eyes like the water ran over the rocks behind her. The girl saw that she was not a shadow or a ghost, though she had no energy. She wondered if the soul would give this woman energy, and if the woman would give the soul a place to rest.
She held out the jar and asked “do you think this is your soul?” But the woman turned away and cried all the harder, with tears that seemed to wash away her life.
“No,” she said, “it's not my soul. I don't deserve a soul for I gave mine away long ago.”
“Well then, come with me and help me find a resting place for this soul. This waterfall is beautiful but there's so much more to the forest. Come with me, we can always return here when we need to.”
The woman got up slowly. It had been more than twenty years since she moved about of her own free will. Her body was stiff and her muscles hurt. She was tired, but she rose up and followed the girl, curious to see if she could help find a resting place for the soul in the jar. They traveled along a path through the forest, looking for the resting place of the soul, as God had said. Before long they found a demon-man. He was chopping down a tree with hacksaw, and so intent was he on his work that he didn't even know they approached. The girl and the woman were both a little fearful of him, so strong and tall and potent he was. They stood and watched him for a short while, and suddenly he turned and looked at them.
“I felt you! What do you want?” He thundered.
“Do you think this is your soul?” the little girl asked, holding out the jar for him to see.
The demon-man laughed at the question. He laughed until he was crying and holding his stomach. “My soul??!!?” he bellowed. “Do I think that is my soul????!!! I'm part demon, stupid girl. I lost my soul to fire in a time I don't even remember, so long ago was that. It's not my soul, my soul has burned to ashes.” His laughter subsided and a grimace took his smile's place on his red and tough face. It softened a little. “It's not my soul.” he whispered.
“Well, we're trying to find a resting place for it. God told us it's a soul and that it needs a place to rest.” The little girl took hold of the woman's hand, a gesture not lost on the demon-man. “This forest can be dangerous,” the little girl said. “Will you come with us and perhaps your strength and power will scare away the creatures that would harm us?” She looked at the tree he was cutting down. “You can always return to you task when we are done, or you get bored.”
The demon-man looked at the hacksaw and at the tree. He'd been cutting the tree for so long he didn't even remember why he was cutting. He only knew he was compelled to cut and that the job never seemed to get done no matter the force he used or the strength he spent. “All right,” he said, “ I'll come with you. I'll help you find a resting place for the soul in the jar.”
And off they went, down the path in the forest, all three of them. Before long they came upon twins, a man and a woman. The woman was solid and plump, with rosy cheeks and a smile on her face. The man looked just like her, only like a male version, and was taller and thinner. He carried no emotion. He was sitting on a log watching the woman play with some forest critters. She had a few squirrels, a raccoon, and a fawn in front of her, and she was trying to teach them to read. The forest critters paid attention, then scampered about, then came back, then ran off again. The woman just laughed and kept to her lessons despite the antics of her class. It was all a game, and it made the little girl laugh and the woman smile.
The rosy cheeked woman greeted the three strangers warmly, though she was unsure of them. “Well, friends” she said, “what a lovely jar. What have you in there?”
“A soul,” said the weeping woman. “The little girl is looking for a resting place for it.”
“A soul!” The thin man and rosy cheeked woman both exclaimed together. “We were born without souls, and have been trying to earn one.”
“Maybe this is it,” the little girl said, holding out the jar.
The thin man shook his head and the rosy cheeked woman just laughed. “We haven't earned our soul yet, child. We have much work to do before we can have a soul.”
At that moment, the jar began to shake. The little girl, in fear, placed the jar on the ground. She grabbed for the hand of the weeping woman, who grabbed for the hand of the rosy cheeked woman, who took the hand of the thin man, who clasped the hand of the demon-man, who placed his hand in that of the little girl. The were in a circle around the shaking jar, and they themselves shook with fear and even a little excitement. As they touched each other a deep magic began to flow through them, deeper even than the magic of the God who set the little girl on this mission. The magic was sadder than the weeping woman's tears, stronger than the demon-man's strength, more joyful than the rosy cheeked woman's laughter, and quieter than the thin man's emotionless face. The magic was as frail as the little girl and as thin as her dress and as pretty as her face. It moved among them and through them and around them. It shook the jar until the jar began to break into pieces.
All of a sudden, with a whoosh and great beating of wings a number of tiny birds emerged from the jar. The birds flew straight into the air, and around the circle of magic, and in between the soul-less wanderers. There were white birds, and grey birds, and bright birds of yellow and red. There were green birds with orange wings and blue birds that matched the sky. As they flew around the magic circle they seemed to settle, one on each of the wanderer's heads and one on top of each of the trees and one upon the rocks and one for each of the critters that scampered about. The wanderers were holding tight to each others hands and looking up at the birds above their heads as each of the birds folded their wings and fell right into the wanderers themselves! The little girl who thought she was just a shadow became real as she held the hands of the others. The weeping woman whose life had washed away with tears had eyes that no longer cried, but gleamed with a new life. The demon-man found a new direction for his strength, one not bent toward destruction but rather one that protected. The thin man smiled, for his little bird helped him feel happy. The rosy cheeked woman's mouth was wide open in surprise and wonder, for she realized she no longer had to earn that for which she yearned.
“Why, it's not like I expected at all!” cried the little girl. “I don't know if God deceived me or if I misunderstood what He was saying! The jar held my own soul, and yours, and yours, and it was a deep magic that brought us together in this place to release them.” Still holding hands, the troupe of wanderers laughed and cried all together and all at the same time, their souls now resting inside.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Dissociative Disorder or Past Lives?
I had a tarot reading done this weekend. The witch who did the reading was pretty adamant that I was completely sane. She suggested that one of my parts was someone from a past life. I've entertained this thought before, wondering if perhaps a residual past life came to help me survive in this life. I'm not creeped out by the thought, and it doesn't really affect my goals in therapy or how I view this part. It seems to just add another layer, or element to my system. Any thoughts?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Finding Gratitude
Gratitude comes to me in peculiar packages. I have been trying to train myself to be grateful every day for something, and yesterday was a real first and a testament to how far I have traveled from the depths of despair to where I am now. Living with DID is certainly an up and down experience for me, and the past week has really been "down." I was crying in my therapist's office (cliche, right?) about to have a system crash. One of my "parts," violent and angry, was hating on me, and my therapist asked a very poignant question - "why did Rae come into being?" My answer was "because the system couldn't function." We all stopped for just a moment, as that statement percolated throughout my system. I became Rae because otherwise the system couldn't function. At a crucial time in my teen years, I had been raped and it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Rae came to save the system. She graduated from high school, went to college, and became a teacher. For just a moment, I was grateful for the strength I found within to become who I needed to become to survive. I survived a childhood of trauma, and I survived that last assault. But I did more than survive. I gathered all that was strong inside and I became who "we" are today. I am many, and in my plurality I maintain close friendships, a marriage of 24 years, and a career as a teacher (going on 19 years). I have children, grandchildren, and a home full of love. I am working on co-consciousness in therapy, so that all of us can more fully participate in this life. I am grateful I have this strength. I hate that I have to hide behind these false names, as I worry that any knowledge of my mental illness would affect my career. It's self-perpetuating - the stigma of DID pervasively exists, requiring that those of us with DID step forward to share our stories so that the world may know who we really are. However, those of us with DID fear stepping forward as the stigma of DID and all mental illness could seriously negatively impact our lives. Someday I will have the strength to let the world know who I am. Someday I will use my voice.
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