Red, Blue, and Yellow Yarn

There's a book I have in my picture book collection (title above) about a little boy whose Bubby has come to visit. Bubby has lots of rules, and he doesn't like them. Bubby is staying in his room, and he's not supposed to go in, but he does anyway, to get a car he forgot on his bed. While he's there, he sees his Bubby's balls of yarn, all perfect in a basket, and it's so tempting to juggle them...but he's not very good at it, and every time one drops and rolls away, he just grabs another. By the time he is caught, the entire room is a giant, colorful web of yarn.

I just finished reading an autobiography of a woman who had DID, and successfully integrated her 24 personalities. Unlike Sybil, her book is written from her own perspective, with her therapist's notes included.

Here's a brilliant quote from her book (which I highly recommend) that I really think describes what's going on inside me right now:

"...Yet the flock seemed worse, with personalities further apart an acting out more vigorously now than we had been before beginning therapy. Lynn had said that therapy was like separating the strands in a tangled web of yarn. It made sense that things would keep getting more separate for a while so that we eventually came back together in a more organized way."

I have a beautiful life to knit. I just need to untangle all the red, blue, yellow (and other colors!) balls of yarn so I can put them back together and create the wonderful person I am supposed to be.

(quote from The Flock, by Joan France's Casey with Lynn Wilson)

Murdered

This may turn out to be against my better judgement, but I am posting it anyway.

"Leiby! Leiby!" Thousands took to the streets
looking for a little boy
who didn't come home
missing for just a few hours
and already, the community mobilized
to find him.

And they did.
Too late.
Dead.
Chopped up.

When it's physical
visible
we all go looking.

But what about all of us
who went missing as children
emotionally?
Whose minds are chopped up
ruined
destroyed?
Whose spirituality
connection with G-d
is gone
along with our childhoods?

No one came looking for us...
No one looks for the little girls
who disappear into their heads
whose smiles are gone

No one looks for us
Because our bodies
are still here.

Rethinking

When I first started writing and drawing abotu abuse, more than five years before I started this blog, I portrayed him as menacing in every incident I wrote about.

Now though...I know the truth. I know that sometimes, he was sugary sweet, hugs and kisses, pleading.

It left me confused. If he's so ice, it can't be bad, right? So when I told, when I admitted it was bad, when I stopped blocking...I had to portray him as all black, all bad, all mean...

If not, it would be my fault for listening, for wearing that pair of underwear, for getting undressed, for kissing his penis...after all, he didn't make me....

poem

from my friend, who goes by the name "been there"

Was fearless

And careless

As he got a hold of my trust

So youthful

And truthful

But gone with his thrust

I keep going

Not knowing

Something precious was lost

Now recreating

And evaluating

Can’t even fathom the cost

Memories uncontrolled

Horrors yet untold

Keep bubbling to the top

All that matters

Is left in shatters

stop STOP STOP!

There is no appeasing

It keeps teasing

Torturing my soul

This is bringing

A past so stinging

Its getting out of control

bunkbed III

my big brother is so cool
he's like a dentist you know
"just pick up your hand
if you don't like it," so

as the tickle fight progresses
and i want him to stop now
i pick up my hand screaming
"STOP" as loud as i know how.

my big brother is so cruel
he's like a dentist you know.
i pick up my hand to tell him to STOP
but he continues to GO.

metal spoons

when: friday night, year unknown

where: at the dining room table

we're waiting for everyone to finish washing. i'm bored, and he's sitting straight across from me. in childish innocence, i play a game. "monkey see, monkey do".

he taps his fingers.
i tap mine.

he hums a tune.
i hum back.

everyone's laughing.

he starts getting annoyed. this isn't supposed to happen! it's just a game! i'm too little to understand not to push my volatile brother too far.

he makes a face.
i make a face.

he glares at me.
i glare back.

he picks up his spoon, voicelessly threatening to throw it at me.
i pick up mine.

next thing i know, there's a twinging pain above my eye, and i have two soup spoons instead of one. touching my eyebrow, i feel a droplet of blood. not too much.

i don't understand. wasn't it just
a game?
like all the others we have
played?

i guess i was wrong.
now i know, never get him upset.
if you do, you will regret it.

lesson learned.

blank mind I

why was i in that room?
was anyone else at home?
how old was i? night or day?
all these things i do not know...

i'm on the bed...lying down...
he's on me. it hurts. NOOOO
"I just want to try something," he says
i'm crying.
what is he doing? what is he trying?
i don't know. i don't know.
i never will.
i think...
get off get off get off

memories of lace

while lying on my old bed
trying hard to fall asleep
i close my eyes real tight
please Hashem! no
dreams! but still...
here they come...

"please, pretty please?" his face all puckered
in question. how can i say
no? "i don't like it!" i
want to SCREAM...but
here we go again
why?
why do i always laugh?!
it's not funny..
oh, how i hate my
body's instincts...

"aren't these pretty? they'll fit...
won't you please try them on?
for me?" but...
i hesitate-underwear shouldn't
have holes. besides
i don't know. do
other girls do this
________for their older brothers?