Highway

We are speeding
Along a highway
20 mph above
The speed limit
All of us
Crammed into a tiny
Car on a long
Winding highway
It crosses over itself
There are no traffic lights
But barriers
In nonsensical places
If we stop
We will likely crash
CRASH!
The scenery makes
No sense at all
Nothing does
In this car
Eva says
Pull over
You don't have to drive
But we do!
We need to drive
There's nowhere to pull over
So the colors around
Continue to blur
Nonsensical
Why are these colors here
In this order
Along this road
I don't need to stop driving
Whether I do or not
There will be a CRASH
Because no one
Can drive
Forever....

(Artistic rendering of the scenery below)

Understand II

I think some people did not understand my last post. See, people actually in my situation seemed to get it, but those outside of it, didn't.

(my apologies, in advance for not replying to comments on the last post and not publishing all, I'm using a mobile device and can't seem to comment.)

I am Jewish. I am religious-Hassidic, in fact. Yes, there are organizations-tikvah at ohel, ohel itself, the Jewish Board, and others.

If you have read my blog from start to finish, you know that my current therapist is number 11. Although I have never explicitly stated it (that I recall) I have been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. (No apologies here-if you comment on my blog in any way denying the existence of my very real illness, I will mark it as spam.)

Do you know how hard it is to find a therapist that works for any given client? Do you know how hard it is to find a therapist experienced in treating DID?

Sure, I can go to a clinic and get low cost therapy, pay five dollars a session. But at what cost to my health? I'm with an amazing therapist, one who gets me, understands me, and actually knew enough to suspect my condition, and knew enough to know where to send me for a proper evaluation. None of my TEN previous therapists saw that. I was just called lazy, and told I wouldn't get better if I didn't do the work and I could never understand what was WRONG with me, that I was killing myself (metaphorically) working in therapy and not getting better! Turns out, it was all the wrong work for me.

Still think I should leave a therapist who has helped me make great strides, and works with all of me, for someone who doesn't know how to screen for DID, let alone treat it? Walk eleven therapists and fifteen years of trying, after (probably more than) seven years of sexual abuse. Then judge.

Understand?

We as a community
Don't stand as strong
As we'd like to pretend

We don't protect
We don't support
We don't avenge

So if you are in a position like mine
I hope you don't mindy
But there's nothing we can do to help

We don't have money for you
Because you mean nothing
You're just someone created
To abuse.

Drowning

We feel ourselves
Going underwater
Fast
Can't swim
A whirlpool
Dragging us down
Into quicksand
The money
Needed to send
Rescue crews
To get us out
Must come from
Somewhere
But where?
They don't want to help
Because we don't exist
After all
You can't see
What's not there
And you only see
One Little Sheep
The rest of us
Are hidden deep
Already
Drowned

To donate to my therapy fund, mail checks and cash to the person who ha kindly arranged for a tzedaka fund to write checks to my therapist:

Keren Zichron Gedalyahu
C/O Rabbi M. Keller
565 East 8th Street
Brooklyn, NY 11218

Voices

For so many years
I have feared
Voices.

Voices should come from outside your head.
Unless you're talking to yourself inside, then it's okay.
But they should generally be other people's voices
Coming from outside.

After all, if you have voices coming from inside
They take you to an office where you wait for hours
And a man talks to you and asks you questions about the voices
And then gives your mother a paper with a medicine written on it
And you have to take it every single day
To make the voices quiet.

So I made them go away.
Far away.
Hearing voices is bad.
It's like a sickness.
And you only have to take medicine when you are sick.
So if you get better, then you don't need the medicine anymore.
No more voices.

And then, someone finally figured out what was really wrong.
Someone listened.
Someone realized that it wasn't just abuse, a normal case of PTSD
As if PTSD is ever normal
They looked deeper
and they found the others.

But they wouldn't talk to Little Sheep.
All those parts...they could talk, most of them.
Or draw pictures.
Or write.
Or cry.
But only some people could hear them.
Not me, just not me.

Which is why, when at 2:00 this morning, I heard someone say
"STOP THAT! IT TRIGGERS ME!"
I kinda freaked out.
More than a little.
And I shouted back.
"WELL, WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO!"
And Me answered "use a tangle, doofus!"

And I played with the tangle.
Til after seven in the morning.
When I finally cried myself to sleep,
Tangle in hand.

(edited for anonymity, but otherwise, completely true, completely Little Sheep. No false details, just some removed)