For instance, don’t they know that if I say something which sounds stupid or childish, it’s most likely one of my younger parts? And why don’t they get that if they poke fun at me for it they’re poking fun at a young child? Often I’m met with remarks like, “Well duhhhh!” or “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” I’ve noticed if someone else around here mispronounces a word or says something which sounds rather dumb, it gets shrugged off. But let me say the wrong thing, forget where I put something, or that I went such-and-such a place with so-and-so and I’m bombarded with ridicule. I feel much of the time like a sort of Rainman. (It’s worth noting that while I may be the object of much teasing, I’m the walking dictionary everyone comes to when they can’t spell a word–and most usually the most common, everyday words. Do I make fun of them for not knowing how to spell? No, that seems rather cruel to me, so why would I want to shame them?)

The other day I mentioned my driving on the freeway phobia, and was met with the type of look of amusement parents often exchange at their kids’ expense. You know, the kind of look that says, wow, you’ve no idea how incredibly funny your stupidity is, but it would be mean to laugh outright, so we’ll just do some eye-rolling and exchange looks of amusement.

I feel trapped. Do I want to go through my day reminding people left and right that I’m a multiple? Uh-uh. Neither do I want to be an old sourpuss who can’t take a joke. Even less, though, do I want to be the butt of every joke. I don’t understand why it is that people will start off feeling compassion regarding one’s disorder, but end up (and in a short period of time) treating it like a joke. Sometimes I get roasted so much that I should be looking around for the cameras. Maybe Don Rickles will show up and we can really make an evening out of how dumb I am.

What really messed with my head during my growing up years what the reality of being abused nearly every day of my life conflicting with the reality going on around me. For one reality was visible and tangible, the other was hidden away like the foul secret it was. I had to live them both, find some way of doing a juggling act, but could only acknowledge the one reality. And once my mother found out about the abuse and did nothing to stop it, it messed me up even worse. So did my stepdad’s frequent commands to “start smiling and acting happy so Mom won’t suspect anything.” I know I’m not an abused child any more. But when I get ridiculed for every word out of my mouth, it sure feels like it.

No one I live with is especially insensitive in general. And we all have a history of bantering back and forth. So why is this getting razzed all the time bothering me to this degree? I suspect because no one seems to care enough any more to talk with me about my DID. To ask how my parts are doing. No acknowledgement whatsoever that I confided this truth in them, except in the sense that their digs and barbs have increased tenfold. Maybe they don’t know they do it; maybe sub-consciously it’s some kind of Freudian defense mechanism which helps them deal with my disorder. Ah, who cares about the reason anyhow? Why dissect motives and all that? Rude and insensitive is rude and insensitive, and I need another cup of coffee now. (Thank goodness I haven’t flubbed up my coffee making in weeks, or I’d have to endure more of those jokes!)

What harm? I wondered
while you voiced your vehement disapproval,
leaving me with the typical worn to a nub guilt trip,
“Do what you want if you won’t follow the church’s teachings…”

What we fought
what we fought about, mother,
was more than the circumference of a smooth carved ring

perched cool on my bare finger:

You interpreted my budding breasts
as a kind of treachery,
and all my unadorned fingers

(with their unpainted nails)
couldn’t hide the fact of my blossoming femaleness.

I wore knee socks
with jumpers
longer than anyone else,
pretending not to see my classmates’ shiny nylons
on keen flashing legs,
even while my restless fingers ached to stroke their cashmere sweaters
worn with such brazen ease.

Girls who mattered,
(the ones boys whipped around to check out
when their names rang out
during roll call)

held their manicured hands
in dangled fashion
like bunches of keys
attached to their wispy waists,
by which they gained admittance
to the cool clique with its
ratted hair
kohl rimmed eyes

and tentative petting
(over the clothes only) in cold  back seats.
Having nothing to prove
( for they had no need to earn their worth)
they could afford to set rules,
could dare to boldly cut their eyes
at panting boyfriends
and patiently slap away square hands
fumbling with nylon encased flesh.

You often accused me of stealth–
but I was not the sneak, mother,
not the pilferer
or thief.
I wanted
only what was mine:

to blossom naturally
without the topic of  my puberty
being the theme of jesting dinner time conversation.

For oh!  There are so many means
of hobbling daughters.
One has only to convince them
of their ugly pinched selves
while shoving begrudged flesh
into drab dresses and childish, outgrown jumpers
meant to hide a burgeoning beauty.

One has only to deny
the blossom on the rose
and, come twilight,
wilting has set in,

and with it
a kind of root rot
for which there is no cure.

Drooping, the head lolls
and caves in on itself,
Becomes another sort of obscenity:

the obscenity of beauty deliberately destroyed.

Thus decapitated
thus hobbled,
I knelt beside my bed,
knobby knees  stabbing the hardwood floor like knives,
my body swaying slightly with the wanting of it
knowing it was hopeless to ask
(but– in for a pound in for a penny:)

Dear God,
may I please
please may I wear my ring,

and not go to hell for it.

Amen.

Posted on Wednesday, October 31, 2007 at 01:35PM by beautifuldreamer in Poetry, Family, Abuse | 3 Comments

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Reader Comments (3)

Dear Beauty

your poetry is very powerful, it really does make us speechless.

bless you, sending safe hugs ((((Beauty))))

keepers

October 31, 2007 | keepers

Oh, the awfulness of jests at adolescence…

Do you still have that ring?

November 1, 2007 | Marcy

For Christmas I hope you buy yourself a ring – call it a promise ring – a promise to yourself to be true to yourself and love yourself as you are.

Your poetry is amazing – these words especially, touched me “to blossom naturally
without the topic of my puberty
being the theme of jesting dinner time conversation.”

November 1, 2007 | Enola

//

(Becky Kelly was kind enough to grant me permission to use some of her art work on my blog. When I discovered her site yesterday, I knew I had to share her talents with my readers. This piece of work immediately made me think of some of our littles getting together for a joyous dance!)