A Bit of Life, In My Own Words

It's difficult to stop, and focus on what I need to say. Me, as Abbi. When I dissociate, what comes out is free to be itself. Sometimes it's in really profound and beautiful ways. Much of the time it's sad, and, to me, pretty pathetic. No matter what, and even if no one listens, I'm going to speak out about this. But every time I try, I zone out. I pull into my mind, where it is safe and dark, and yet my fingers keep moving across the keys without missing a beat.

And when I realize the time passed, I am amazed to see what I've written, yet sometimes disappointed because I was not able to finish my original point without going on Auto Pilot.

This may be an illness. But it's also an instinct.

It's such an overpowering instinct, I cannot emphasize enough how it can change me in an instant. Just by reading my own thoughts on paper, another side might emerge in response to the idea, or statement. It's a constant juggling of opinions and interactions, an exchanging of words and feelings, mulling them over a hundred times over before I say a thing.

It's an adaptive response to what used to be my natural habitat. I'll tread lightly on this subject now. My own honesty does seem to switch my Auto Pilots into On. Like I said, my tone and wording switches, my opinion shifts, as does my point. But this is more than just ordinary zigzagging ways of talking. Though I can't deny having issues with attention, I must insist, this is different.

(Bear with me, I'm feeling zoney)

If your natural habitat is unsafe, or unstable, day-in and day-out for decades, you basically have to learn to juggle a lot of shit, while hopping barefoot through a mental and emotional minefield. For years. Fuck being a kid, you have to grow up fast. Your mind goes on Auto-Pilot. It starts processing everything differently, just so that you can keep from dropping the ball; to keep that terrible, destructive bomb from going off in your face again.

It becomes a subconscious game you play. Maybe, that minefield will turn into a meadow one day, and you'll get to dance and play without fear of pain and retribution. And when the bombs do go off, you'll be picking the glass out of your own flesh and you'll pretend it was done by someone who cared more than you.

But enough of that. Today is today, and my keys are a-clacking, and dinner is coming out of the oven, and I have a handsome man to share it with.

Good night to you all.

Abbi Z.

A Letter Written in a Dissociative State

"There's nothing quite like coming out of a fog, to find yourself feeling empowered and rich. It doesn't tend to happen to Abbi, but to us, it's a breath of fresh air. To react, to express oneself freely without the consideration of restraint or doubt.

Perhaps there's a bit too much impulsiveness at times. At others, there is too much blatant horror contorting the face.  Abbi is suspended in time. She is a roof, housing so many hidden things, it seems to be collapsing under the pressure.

The truth is, she's been on auto-pilot for a long time. But this does not mean she has been disconnected. No, she has lived through her ups and downs while automatically switching through her roles, never realizing she gave us the wheel long ago.

It's so much like when a driver panics and pulls her hands off the wheel to shield her eyes from danger. The mind, ever present and anxious to survive will move the hands, take the wheel, and take control, despite the fear of harm.

But if you look even closer at the idea, you'll see the parts that hid in fear to begin with, the ones that take cover to shield her from pain, they are also playing their roles, taking their turns.

There is an endless dance within the mind, and the leads keep switching back and forth all the time, depending on the music, depending on the people around. It is beautiful, and it is complex, but it was made out of a great need for protection and strength.

And though Protection and Strength play their parts, they would be so much stronger had she not split them up from so many others.

To Abbi, I am the Goddess of communication, of symbols, and script. I know much, and I know many. But they do not always know me. I survey in the silence, in the dark of the mind. I pick up the pieces they've all left behind, and bring them up in word.

There is much to be said, but life does get in the way of things.  I'll leave it at this.

Your sky has so many faces. The dark blue night, freckled with white stars. The yellow king of Day, the pale queen of Night. The melancholy, tearful clouds that tantrum through your world. How can you expect to wear just one face? In the midst of such power and change, how can you expect to stay the same?

Good day, friends.
Until we meet again.

Nyx N."



P.S.

It's hard to explain exactly what I learned from reading this. There is a lot I can learn about myself in what was written, I know that much is true. What I was doing prior to this, was listening the Dresden Dolls, though I can't remember which song (a sign I was already zoning out), when I suddenly, and quite urgently needed to write. I remember thinking how odd and annoying it was that I lost interest in the music, and went on to write a blog post instead, when I didn't feel like writing at all. I remember typing, but I didn't realize what I was talking about, except that I used a car as an example for something.

Welcome to my weird ass life.

Abbi

Learning About Alters

I'm sitting here, typing this, with very little enthusiasm in my fingertips. I'm only writing this because I'm prompted to do so, not at all because I really want to talk about this. I honestly don't want this to be my reality. The fact that it is is quite troubling, and scary. But I'm not here to pity myself. I'm here to explore the shattered bits and piece of who I am, in a blind attempt to glue them together. And yet there are times when I am not so blind at all. There are parts of me that know all there is to know about what I've been through and who I am. Sometimes I see myself quite objectively and honestly, with open, constructive criticism that is neither soft, nor harsh.

The thing is, it's tremendously difficult to access that objective, logical side of me while feeling intense shame and guilt. There are walls between certain expressions and emotions, and some of those walls are very sturdy, and what's been hidden within them can be very sick.


I'm still getting to know "everyone" inside my head. A lot of the parts of me that have come forth (through journaling, and video journaling, both of which I'll be posting here soonish) have been very open and supportive. When I recorded some videos to discuss what's bothering me, it didn't take long before an Alter took over to finish the point I was struggling to make.

She was very verbally direct, unemotional, and intensely protective of me. She discussed my past abuse, and my current relationship with my family with a jadedness I hardly recognize. She regarded my family as cruel, heartless wastes of time and effort.

When she finished making her point, she stepped aside, and another Alter stepped up. This one was very gentle, patient and sympathetic. She explained to the camera, with great concern, that I've been struggling to cope with daily life, and that she has been encouraging me to stay positive and active.

Once she began discussing ways she tries to help me remain active, another younger, much more enthusiastic Alter basically shoved her way forward to talk about all the exciting activities she has planned for me. She talked happily about the fun things she wanted "us" to do now that Autumn is on its way. She admitted openly that she was younger than me, and that her job was to be free and enjoy herself, and keep me having fun.

I noticed she was the only one, in all the recordings, to refer to any other Alters by name. She referred to the sympathetic side as Miss Nicki, and briefly discussed being friends with Annie, who she said was a lot like her, but little, and sweeter. She also said "Annie has been Annie for a long time." So maybe Annie was my first Alter, and maybe this chipper side of me that recognizes other alters by name and function, knows a lot more about what's going on than I originally thought.

Still trying to piece together this twisted puzzle. one day at a time.

Until next time

NEW: PTSD, DID, and Learned Ways of Coping With Trauma

"The blank page is ever staring me down. I'll have to close my eyes and let this flow. There is much to be said, and I hate to be vague about it, but things are getting sort of gritty and sharp around here lately. All my goods and bads are switching places and rubbing each other the wrong way and I find my personality shifting shapes just to balance things out.

I suppose I underestimated my mind's ability to assess stressful situations and organize my reactions accordingly. Rather, I underestimated its ability to do so without my realizing it. And while I go through my days, piecing together blurry, dark moments gone by, oftentimes without say in the matter, I find the ironies of life becoming increasingly burdensome to deal with."



I'm not sure when I wrote the above text. My response to logging into this account and reading my last saved blog was "What the fuck?"  I cannot emphasize how odd it is to read such a profoundly true statement about my daily life. I am proud that I was at some point able to express my situation so fluidly and accurately. However, I forgot expressing these feelings openly. I completely blocked it out. I have not logged in since writing it, I'm positive of that.

With that being said, I'm coming back here with "one I open and one I shut." Please forgive me if I'm being strangely cryptic. I'll try to stay on track, but please bear with me. It's been some time.

I've learned much since last writing. Every day is more informative than the last, in some way or another. I've been in therapy for a few months now, and calling it an eye opener would be such a dramatic understatement, it kind of nauseates me. Without giving out names and mini details, I'll say this:

I've been diagnosed with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), as well as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder, blah, blah, blah. No, I am not like "Sybil," or "USA of Tara," or any other nonsensical portrayals of the disorder. (No offense, Sally, you're great.)  It's difficult to pen down how it affects my job, relationships, and daily functioning. Those details or useless unless you understand the problem, because the disorders have little to do with my present life, and all to do with my past.

Of course there was love and warmth and joy and togetherness my childhood. "Faith like a mustard seed" is the truthiest of truths, my friends. But more on that later.  There was also a lot of abuse-free illness, sharp physical pain, and fragility that I experienced from a very young age that traumatized me as a child in deep, lasting ways. Soon after, there was a lot of abuse that I experienced, either by witnessing it and its results, or experiencing it directly. Most of it was verbal and very emotional, some of it was physical and sexual. I learned to dissociate from pain and compartmentalize emotions almost effortlessly, so that the abuse I would come to experience for the years, and years to come, became quite manageable indeed.

The problem, of course pops up when I am unable to turn my (many) designated Auto Pilots on standby. By "Auto Pilots" I mean the different sides of me that I sectioned off during my dissociation. I'm sure I'll be getting into that later. I have every intention of spilling my guts out here, in ways I have never done before. This will be a place for all the different sides of me to have their say and make their mark.  Dear Goddess this might get mad!

Until next time