A New Year and New Thoughts

Today is the first day of the new year, January 1st, 2015. I always think of the beginning of a new year as a time for rethinking and reorganizing. Rethinking my priorities and trying to reorganize my life so that it better aligns itself ~ and myself ~ with God's priorities and His Word. 

I fear that I'm doing a piss-poor job of it this year, however, because I'm playing a game on Facebook, called TrainStation, that I really like. I know I play it far too often and I know I need to stop. For a long time I had only two neighbors, and with two neighbors ~ neither of whom ever play ~ I could get away with playing once a week. But a couple of months ago, maybe less, I somehow managed to acquire five new neighbors, and all five of them play everyday. Now, I realize that just because my neighbors play everyday that doesn't necessarily mean I have to play that often. My problem is that I really, REALLY like the game. It's hard for me to think about cutting back on the amount of time I spend playing, and it's VERY hard to consider not playing at all.

Since I wrote the previous, I've had time to see Jeff and talk to him about playing this game. Interestingly, his take on the situation was very different than mine is, and it was completely distinct from what I thought it would be. He reminded me that throughout my childhood the times when I had fun, when I played, were few and far between. So he told me that he didn't see anything wrong with my playing the game. He even said he thought there was nothing wrong with me playing it everyday as long as I play in moderation. Then I got the idea to reward myself with extra gameplay if I use my exercise machine everyday, and Jeff thought that was a good idea.

So that's what I'm doing! Thus far I've exercised for twenty-five minutes each day, four days in a row. Wow. Just wow!

A Baby Saves the World, Glory to God For a Baby!

My desire for this blog has always been that it be a place for me to write about my thoughts and feelings as I experience them, whether they be with regard to the present or the past, or the future for that matter, and for me to be able to write here often, hopefully everyday. 

It's so frustrating to me that I can't seem to pull that off. I'm doing good if I can write here once every few months. I don't know why that is. Back when I was multiple I had an alter named Secret whose job it was to make sure that the rest of us never told anyone what was happening to us ~ never exposed the secrets of the cult abuse ~ or even that there was any cult abuse, never mentioned anything about Harry's abuse, never revealed the fact that I was abused by my mother as well. 

Now that I'm no longer multiple and Secret has been integrated and is a part of the whole that is me, I've done all the things she tried to keep me from doing. I've revealed all those horrific secrets and exposed them for what they are ~ lies from the Enemy. I mean, they really happened to me and they were appalling and shocking, but their purpose was to pervert my understanding of God and to make me believe that He could never love me and would never receive me as His child. I don't know why they would expend so much energy and effort on one child, but in point of fact they did. But it didn't work. 

It didn't work! God's grace and mercy triumphed over Satan's evil designs, and for that I am forever grateful to God.

So, this day after Christmas, this is what I want to say:

                                  HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESUS!!!

Hope Was a Child Named Wordsworth

Hope. The Bible says about hope, "Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us."~~Romans 5:5, NLT

That really means a lot to me, given it's only been the last five or so years that I had any hope. Harry stole any hope I could have had when I was very small with his abuse and threats. It was progressive, happening over a period of months and years as his abuse continued ~ never-ending, unremitting, always present, larger than life, always in my face, slapping, mocking, defiling, shocking, taking my breath away, suffocating, strangling my hope ~ until it was dead, gone from my life, and I was left wanting to be dead myself. I tried suicide nine times, and almost succeeded a number of those times, not realizing that God had placed in me an alter named Wordsworth, whose job was hope, and whose job was to keep me alive until my own hope could be restored once again.

I don't think I'm done writing about this. It's already taken me a very long time to write this tiny amount. My excuses are innumerable: getting the details worked out so that Mom's long-term care insurance actually kicks in and starts paying; I'm actually doing some artwork; I'm reading lots of books; I'm on Facebook far too much; I'm watching way too much TV, yada, yada, yada, etc., etc… The first two ~ Mom's insurance and my artwork are probably valid, but the rest? Nope! So with that said, I'll leave this topic for another time…

The Terror In a Book. But Who Knew?

I'm reading a book called Switching Time by Richard Baer, M.D. It's the true story of a woman with MPD (now called DID in the DSM V, but I've never liked that designation for it; MPD is a much better descriptor for the disorder), and it's written from the perspective of her treating psychiatrist (he's the author). At the time this story was written (1989) she had seventeen separate personalities. 

The reason I'm writing about it here is because, as I'm reading, I find myself being triggered by things I read on almost every page - something I had no idea would happen when I began the book. It turns out that Karen 3 (the main alter/core personality) and everyone else in her system of alters were victims of ritual abuse, along with all the other unspeakable things that were done to them by the father, grandfather, and other relatives and friends. The only one who didn't actually abuse her/them was the mother, but she did absolutely nothing to protect Karen from the people who did abuse her, and she did abuse her verbally and emotionally. In addition, in the portion of the book that I've read thus far, the mother's behavior suggests she was aware that the father and the grandfather were abusing Karen - which makes her inaction on her daughter's behalf more than simple neglect or denial (the mother denying to herself that Karen was being abused despite any evidence to the contrary). If Karen's mother knew she was being abused and chose to do nothing to stop it - no matter the reason - then, at least for me (my opinion, for what little it's worth), her inaction was criminal.

The other thing I'm discovering as I read this book has to do with issues of trust. While it took several years for Karen 3's various alters to be able to fully trust Dr. Baer, they were able to do certain things right from the beginning that I've never been able to do with any therapist no matter how long I've been seeing him or her. What I'm referring to is in the area of talking about sexual matters, and specifically, using the biological words for sexual body parts. I can't even say those words by myself or with my doctor - and I've been seeing her since 1992. I trust her about as much as I trust anyone in areas concerning my health, but even so, I can't talk to her about sexual matters, even after all this time.

I have some ideas about why this is such a difficult issue for me, but I don't know if the reasons I know about are the only reasons there are for why this is such a problem. If I'm going to be bluntly honest, there's a part of me that wants to be free of this, but there's another part that doesn't because I'm flat-out terrified.

So that's pretty much it, at least for the part of the book that I've read. Who knew reading a simple book would reveal so much stuff, though I suppose I should have expected it given that it's a true story about a woman who has MPD, and who was a victim of ritual abuse. But I didn't know that when I decided to read the book. I just bought this book because it was about someone with MPD. Oh well. I'm always open to learning new things about myself, and that's what's happening as I'm reading this book.

And on and on I'll read, and hopefully, on and on I'll learn...

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, He Loves Me...YES HE DOES!!!

I just realized last night that February 6th was my born-again birthday. I've been a Christian for 42 years. I don't know how I could've let it slip by. Getting born-again was by far the most important and best decision I've ever made, and probably will ever make. It's the one decision that affected my eternal destiny. At the time I didn't realize the import of it, I don't think, but now I certainly do, and I am eternally and forever grateful to God, and to my savior and Lord, Jesus Christ, God's Son, for loving me enough to die for me, for loving me enough to take the punishment for my sin. Oh my! Words can't express my gratitude… And the great mystery to me is that Jesus would love me at all, knowing the depth of sin in my heart. I just can't fathom that at all.

But He does, whether I can understand it or not! That's the weirdest, and yet the most wonderful part of the mystery. He loves me, even knowing my sinfulness!! I don't understand it, but I'm certainly not going to reject it. That would be just plain dumb!

Hope Destroyed, Hope Restored

I've been thinking about damages lately, the damage that sexual abuse does to a child for the most part, and in particular, the trauma that results from incest on a child. I wrote an un-mailed letter to Harry in a previous post (entitled "Am I Afraid of Anger, or Do I Get Angry At the Fear?", published Monday, May 27, 2013), where I told him everything I could think of about what his treatment of me during my childhood did to me, the damage that resulted, the terrible destruction that has been the result in my life. It has only been through the grace and mercy of God that I've been able to experience any kind of goodness and healing, and I'm extremely grateful for that.

In thinking further about this, I've come to realize that what Harry did that caused the most harm--destruction would probably be a better word--is that he stole my hope. His abuse was so thorough, so invasive and all-encompassing, that he annihilated any hope I might have had that my life could ever be any different. I think that's why I was so suicidal for so long, with nine suicide attempts over a period of about twenty years, eight of them while I was a Christian.

So what all of this means is that because Harry destroyed my hope, and because a person can't live without hope, it had to be brought in from the outside. God brought me hope in the form of an alter personality whose name was Wordsworth. She was eleven, and she named herself Wordsworth because she felt that words, both spoken and written, were the path to healing and wholeness. While she did write rhyming poetry, she didn't name herself after Wordsworth, the poet.

This is the first poem she wrote as herself, using me as a vehicle, in September of 1991. It's called Words:

     So many words in this wide world of mine.
     There must be a billion, three million and nine,
     Or maybe a trillion - I know not of more,
     But even a million's enough for a door. 

     Words full of laughter, of light, and of hope,
     Words that paint pictures for those who must grope
     Through darkness and longing 'til dreams become real
     And light in their tunnel means safety to feel. 

     Scrivening onward, word pictures I'll paint
     So others when thirsty won't give up and faint.
     Words will build true homes from castles on air
     Where laughter and rainbows take place of despair.

                                      S. A. Kuriakos & Wordsworth
                                          ©September 28, 1991

I've always liked this particular poem. It has a lilting feel to it, plus the first couple of lines sound a bit like Dr. Seuss.

When Wordsworth introduced herself to me, what she said about herself was that her name was Wordsworth and her job was hope. What I didn't realize or understand at the time was that it was Wordsworth who kept me alive through all my suicide attempts. It used to frustrate me to no end that I couldn't seem to kill myself no matter how hard I tried. Turns out Wordsworth kept calling 911 on me everytime. Back then it used to make me steaming mad. Now I'm very grateful both to Wordsworth, and to God, for saving my life.

In retrospect I've come to see what an important role hope plays in our lives. I really believe that people can't live without hope--I've certainly found it to be true in my own life. So how do we keep people from giving up their hope in this crazy, mixed-up world we live in now? Seems to me the best way is to tell them about Jesus. I think that's the answer: Jesus Christ. He restored my hope, He healed me and is continuing to heal me, He's helped me to forgive everyone--including my father--who ever hurt me. Basically He's restoring my life. There's still work to be done, but I feel more and more like the end is in sight.

"And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us."~~Romans 5:5, KJV

I know God loves me, something I never thought I'd be able to say. I have the hope of heaven, also something in which I never thought I'd have any confidence. I'm growing more and more bold in talking about Jesus--me who has always been such a fraidy-cat. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm getting healed!! Thank you, Jesus!!

Yippee!!

Those Bossy Clothes!

I had to take my computer to the Apple Store this afternoon, because I managed to lock myself out of it - harrumph!! - and I couldn't figure out how to get back in. Fortunately the guys at the Genius Bar were able to easily figure out the problem and get me going again. While it was happening I was very upset, but in retrospect the whole situation was quite laughable.

As I was leaving the Apple Store I saw this advertisement at a store across the street that said, "Don't let your clothes be the boss of you," that started me thinking. My first thought was that if I were letting my clothes be the boss of me, I would dress very differently than I do. I thought that I would dress in a very feminine manner - even though I'm not exactly sure what that would look like, maybe low-cut dresses all the time. The thing is, low-cut dresses don't look feminine to me. They look immodest and kind of whorish. 

And then the thought occurred to me that by dressing the way I do now, never wearing dresses of any kind, always wearing jeans and baggy tops, not even wearing nice pants or slacks, maybe I'm letting my clothes be the boss of me indirectly. Hmm… Isn't that a fine closet of clothes!! Now that I've figured it out, I have to determine how to change it. 

Maybe I should leave that part up to the Lord, or at least what the solution is. Once I know what the solution is, then I can go about carrying it out…