The Alters

Talking Disassociative Identify Disorder

She Said It’s Called Compliance

I have my own sketch book.  She doesn’t put this art out for everyone to see.   She says it’s too graphic; that it might make other people sad.
Well, anyways, I’m sad too.  But she said this one we could use this time.  She won’t let you see the sexual stuff.  Not good, she says, to put those things on the internet.  So, that sketchbook is just all my own for my own memories, and even I have a monster sticker on it.

At Ware, Massachusetts, Sister Debbie Hale is the most horrible woman.   I hate her, and I don’t understand why Mama won’t look up at me at meal times.  I just stopped trying to catch her eyes, because she never looks up or even smiles.

Today, the day I draw this about at the bottom, well, I don’t know what I lied about, but Sister Debbie said I did lie.  So all day I had to wear a board around my neck with the word “Liar” only on it.

And also I just wanted to talk.  Why can’t we talk? But I talk too much so my mouth is taped a lot.  All day.  I don’t get water on this day.  My hands were tied together at the wrist and she makes me sit at the table with my hands folded on top.

Everyone is eating.  My stomach growls so hard.  I don’t get lunch or dinner because that’s my punishment.  It’s hard to go to sleep with a growling stomach.  Did you know that?  But I think I’ll take the tied hands, taped mouth and no meals over a belt beating.

If I can get a potato into my pocket, I might try to sneak it to my bunk.  But then Sister Debbie will hear me crunching it when it goes quiet at night, and I’ll get a beating.  Well, I’ll just be hungry tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be extra good so I can have meals.

Sila Caprin

The art of the child recalls the memory.

Abused Children Wear Multiple Faces

What the un-abused cannot understand is how a child can be raped and defiled, then smile at school the next day.

What I can say as a sex and physical child abuse survivor is that a lot of us victims don’t fully understand it either, except to explain that this is where fragmentation of the mind happens.

We function in multiple settings, some violent and horrific, some considered normal, and we move between these fragments in order to survive. As a species, we don’t fully understand the absolute capacity we have to get through horrible events and experiences. So, in order to thrive, there must be in all of us, an acceptance, instead of a need for explanations or closure that we may never recive.

Why do evil humans do what they do?

Who cares.

Let’s stop them.

We spend more time researching, than we do focusing in on victim rehabilitation and harsh sentencing for perpetrators.

We spend more time debating theologies on news panels for television time, than we do walking into the lives of the victims so we can truly understand what they have experienced.

If you want a solution to an epidemic like child abuse, ask some of us victims. You will find that maybe you should listen to us, whether you agree with our view or not. If you have not been a victim you really aren’t the expert. The victim is. To put yourself in your own absolute bubble makes you a part of the problem.

Start to listen, as we are speaking very loudly, and our Survivor Voices are rapidly growing.

Cult Child at Amazon:

To Be a Warrior 


“To be a warrior one must learn to wait silently in the shadows. We must gather our quiet into the arching pull back of our bow. We must watch. We must observe. We must not fall into senses of time. To be a warrior one must paint themselves into the colors of their own vulnerability, disallowing shame or the blaming of victims. We gather information, build dossiers, leaving factually scribed scrolls of truth in secret rooms. The warrior is not quick to reaction, but instead, a steady pace of actions well thought out and enacted. To be a warrior one must survive and stay alive inside the turmoil of human bile. We see the thing for what it is, do not let our minds live inside of unrealistic expectations. We gain evidence from behaviors. To be a warrior, sometimes we must say goodbye.” Vennie Kocsis, author

“Split”: Glorifying MPD 


Am I the only MPD carrier who the movie, “Split”, pissed off? From “Sybil” to “The Many Faces of Eve” to “The United States of Tara”, the media has proven time and again how little research they’ve done on this impairment, and how much they enjoy glorifying it.

Now, every other young person seems to suddenly be walking around with MPD, now classified as DID, as if it’s cool, some kind of fadish excuse for shitty behavior.

There’s the girl on YouTube who does videos in costume in each of her “alters”. There are DID blogs everywhere I look, telling stories of what “alters” have done and said, and I watch quietly from a distance.

I can usually tell immediately who is faking it. I know how MPD works. One, I live with it daily. Two, I self integrated out of pure survival, without even realizing what I was doing, and it doesn’t involve putting ones head down and calling up a “child alter” like JZ Knight channeling her 30,000 year old alien, Ramtha.

I have known only a couple of other people in my life who I would agree with their MPD diagnosis. I’ve personally met one therapist who completely gets it on a level most therapists have yet to even figure out. They have a lot to learn.

A simple example. Do we dress different on days when one of our alters is in the forefront? Sure. So do you, depending on your mood. So, what makes us different? Most likely the conversation in our heads. We have collective conversations. I don’t discuss intimate details of my personal diagnosis simply because there are too many people out in the cyber world who actually think it’s cool to live with this impairment. Cool enough to mimic it.

To you fakers, I say, let’s trade for a day. Then you might not think it’s so cool.

For a movie like “Split” to glorify this impairment as horror, an impairment which is a result of severe childhood trauma, minimizes the every day organization integrated MPD carriers live with and the level of work it takes to be a high funtioning person. Instead of making an accurate film depicting the real workings and curings of MPD, Hollywood creates imaginary tales of horror, of which very few movie goers will ever take the time to truly fact check.

Instead, when MPD is mentioned, the response is “Oh, like Sybil?”, and I want to slap someone awake. I want to ask them when was the last time they did some scientific research. Hollywood scripts are not accurate depictions of the rare impairment of MPD.

What is the result of this media irresponsibility? The possibility of people committing crimes and claiming MPD defenses. Worst of all, a stigma gets put on us by the general public; that we are dangerous. Yet, we are not.

You don’t know us; any of us. You either deny the right to our collective existence with False Memory attempts or dismissive indications, or a mere disinterest in the interim of your life, so we of the MPD society are those “weirdos” who don’t really matter.

We do matter. All of us. We are multi-intelligent, after all, we have numerous people inside of us, all functioning at once. We love to study. We study you. We assess your lives. We live in multiple realities every single day.

So please, get your head of of the media’s ass and come meet me and my alters personally. We openly talk about our lives here. Be cautious who you follow and what you believe. Educate yourself on this syndrome.

I don’t adhere to having a disorder. I am not mentally ill. My abusers and those who deny and/or attack my child abuse are mentally ill. Me? I’m a wealth of interesting people if you throw away the stigmas and introduce yourself to us.

She Cannot Watch

 

She cannot watch this world with it’s lack of concern. She cannot watch humans share stories of horror before they click the channel to another station. Satiation. Satiation. Bring the brain to another dimension. Escape the images. Babies dying. Children crying. Mother’s weeping. Father’s gone flat. This is the aftermath of a planet turned cold.

This is real chemical warfare, when the DNA sitting inside of the body no longer has a voice; when it has become robotic, static and unconcerned with the burdens carried by the most innocent of her species, the children. This earth is seeping and shaking in flight, preparing to sling forward, and so she draws her sword. She straps on metal boots to stay rooted in place. She slices through aggravation and loss. She beheads egotistical diatribe and places aside ignorance with intellectual rhymes.

Everything they hear goes in one echoed ear and through the rear of the skull where everything’s gone numb; where smart has become the new dumb, because the last book read was forced in high school and current events are spread from digital non-evidence.

Opinions carry more weight these days than facts. Belief has become an actual thing as if it is valid so the cabals tally up tithes to set aside for parties with children whose eyes have gone hopeless with the knowing that nobody’s listening to their silence scream. There is hope left still inside of her; that in the depths of the crying, they will know help is coming.

No one hears them because the masses are adhered to the harmonic tone of their own voices, bounced back onto them from their blinders, and they become so tightly bound inside of their illusions that their sensibilities drown.

She will ride high on invisible steeds with chariots of good deeds, boundary lines clearly defined and fight stalwart battles, until generations of trauma have been healed. One life at a time. No child left behind. One step. One wound bandaged,  then a chance to become accustomed to the scars left from being ravaged.

You sleepers and your habits have left the vulnerable tattered. So, she waits. She watches. She listens to the clock’s tick tock as time comes in waves. There’s a storm rising. Can you hear the quiet? When it explodes, everything you know will change, and you will never again be the same.

M7

Upselling, Poverty, Alters and Shame

I went to a store to pick up a specific lotion which doesn’t bother my somewhat sensitive skin. I am not a store browser. I am not a crowd person. I have a list, an agenda, I want to walk in, buy it and head back home. I begin to feel irritation when this happens:

Ma’am, you know today we have 40% off these lotion primers.”

Primers? Who the hell has time to put lotion on to prepare for putting more lotion on? I keep Maude’s voice quiet in my head so it doesn’t reach my lips. She immediately reacts at ridiculous ideals, often turning us into an articulate smartass.

Oh, well, thank you,” I reply kindly to the attendant. “but I’ll pass today.”

The store attendant continues to go through the long drawn out process that seems to be involved in selling one small bottle of lotion.

You haven’t had to deal with this long wait with any of the other chicks before.” Maude taunts in my head.

Maybe she’s new.” I telepathically reply back firmly. “Don’t start this shit now.”

More customers have formed a line behind me; four or five humanoids deep. I breathe. I count three round things around me. I numerically reduce a price tag. I grasp at grounding to get through a purchase that is quickly becoming lengthy.

Oh!” The attendant exclaims, as if something extraordinary just happened. “I forgot to tell you!”

What, like, everything is free today?” I sarcastically think to myself.

These lotions are 3 for 40 dollars!” She points to a shelf of numerous, strategically lined-up lotions. “They are extracted from the finest trees in some tropical island somewhere, mixed with leaves of plants from some other tropical island and make the skin expand until the body looks like that of a first year college student who ate carrots all of her life and ran five miles a day…” I am making up my own story, tuning out as she drones on.

Maude starts laughing.

Don’t!” I think, because when she laughs  it begins a chain reaction, and I’m striving to stay composed.

Knowing steps forward, speaking quietly and comfortingly. She is in therapist mode.

Dear, I understand that upselling is a part of your job, and I respect that. What I’d like for you to consider is that when people like me don’t have the money to buy extra things, and we have to continue to say no, it puts us in shame. So in front of all these people in line behind me waiting while you try to sell me things I’ve repeatedly said no to, plainly, I’ll just go ahead and tell you that I am broke and cannot afford more lotions. Does that help you?

The attendee’s face turns a bright shade of embarrassed red.

Sorry.” She mumbles.

It’s okay.” Knowing replies softly. “Just think about it next time, please. Take the first ‘no’ you receive as an indication someone might not have extra money, and don’t give into guilt marketing to get people to impulse buy even though that’s what your boss wants you to do.

I know we have slightly embarrassed her as she silently finishes my transaction. A couple of people smile at me when I walk away, passing them, as if I said what they often want to say.

I feel a sense of guilt. I’ve been in the upselling position years ago when I worked a second job at a retail store. It feels exactly like begging. It is uncomfortable. It is often being tracked by cameras and/or other employees. It’s required by corporate rules of retail. It’s success is rewarded with employee commissions applauding successful guilting of someone into buying, which they usually do just so the sales person will shut the hell up.

In today’s society, asking for help in, general, makes people look at the one in need as if they are an unstable beggar, but those same people often don’t see when businesses train their employees in strategically begging customers to buy products because it’s just “upselling“.

So to all the poor who have to swallow your pride and ask for help to just repeatedly hear “no“, or be judged and kicked down when you need support, remember, you’re not a beggar, you’re just upselling the needs in your life. If businesses can do it, so can we.

Remember to upsell your needs as if it is the most exciting thing that could ever happen.

GUESS WHAT??? Coolest thing ever! My electricity is going to be off in a week! You get the BEST deal on helping someone. YEAH!

GUUUURRRLLLL have I got a SMASHING offer for you! My broke down truck! A mere – 1100 dollars! Wha wha??? Could be MUCH more at the dealership! Told you this was a good deal! Booyah!”

To the meth addict on the corner, you’re not a drug addict. You’re merely upselling a medication need. To the veteran holding a cardboard sign asking for money or food, you are not a beggar. You are simply upselling the failure of America to give a shit about your life.

In fact, to all of us who need support and help, we will NEVER beg another day in our life. Instead, let us take what we have learned from corporate America, that we have the right to cease being looked at as beggars and instead, accept that we are merely  up selling our needs.

That’s how problems don’t get solved and mind manipulation happens; when humans have been made to believe that the poor are just lazy but the swindling up selling from corporate America is an apparent genius commission competition between a salesperson and a potential victim buyer.

Abstract Aberration

The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground.  We grab at leafy branches.  She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble.   Sideways in the gradients lingering around our eyes, the shadows whisper.  They run beside us, and we wonder if we are shadows to them, dark echoes leaning against their eyelids.  Where do we go when the pressure explodes and the heart is torn?  Where do we scream the aftermath? Into pillows, the skies or buried inside?

Words. We create language for the anguish.  The Brave One stands in her place, warrior and explorer of the past.  She will find answers for the empty spaces.  Don’t fear the faces.  Look into their eyes.  Don’t cry.  We stand beside oceans, gazing through windows of waves.  One day the illusions will pass and the pieces of the flashes will merge into view.   We  see truth for what it is, a planted alibi to cover every lie the truth hides, and humans will bend at their knees to kiss the feet of the malevolent just for a promise of heaven.

The Dark One peers, silently into the whispers, always with us, there are none who can attack our back.  It is revealed in instances, and she chuckles, amused at the minions.  Might she cut open the simulated empathy being used as weaponry by the mind swindlers?  Taking a piece of each, she throws their banter into the dark matter, and turning her face, strides away.  There are days when she is habitual, residual and invisible.  There are moments she is unaffected, stone faced and solid, looking at the rejected faces of the displaced, with malice.

They are an inconsequential waste to this place and should die off, jump cliffs and return into nothingness.”

The Wise One watches, taking in the whole of their life, assessing and regressing into the violet of her quiet.  Traveling back, she brings the messages so they can know the next step.

Nothing is permanent.” She says. “Stay inside the moments.”

We hold hands in the color tunnel where the memories funnel in.  We rewind back, watching the past, progress to the present and the continual disturbance.  The film strip plays sporadically and without warning, disarms the army.  We didn’t morph into what was intended.  We’ve pretended for years, watching you, and now we see all the way through.  You’ve been duped.

(cover art by Simona Ruscheva “MPD” oil on canvas)