Just when I had something of importance to blog, I couldn’t get onto my blog space to post it. I’ve been trying all day to get the urgent word out about my doofus-ness. If you’re not sure what a doofus looks like, kindly check out the accompanying photo. Yes folks, that’s me…well, not exactly. Wrong gender, for one thing. But you get the point: a doofus looks like the word sounds….doooooo-fuss! What’s worse, a doofus acts like a doofus. Point in case: I couldn’t even follow through on my resolve to come out to some of my family members. That feels really doofy to me right now. What do I think they’re going to do or say? Maybe it would even be a relief to them to know the source of my ah…quirky behaviour. Why can’t I get beyond my fears and just be my self (selves) for a change? Well, a doofus, by nature, is a sort of social stumble-bum, always saying and doing the wrong things (or saying nothing when words beg to be spoken), never quite in sync with his/her surroundings….that’s me to a T: I zig when I should zag, laugh when nothing is funny, pull when the door clearly is marked push, stubbornly remain emotionally attached to things (marbles, barbie dolls, 60’s music) which others from my generation gave up decades ago. My anger often times exists quite apart from anything going on around me; my affections and enthusiams go deep, and I take them much more seriously than is warranted.
How did I get to be such a doofus? Oh, crud. Of course: I’m a multiple. (Which could exempt me from doofus status, don’t you think?) As simple and complicated as that…which fully explains (in a nutshell) why I couldn’t talk to my loved ones about the very source of my doofyness. Nothing within my head is straightforward; convoluted run my thoughts, many are the voices crying to be heard, vying with each other for recognition. Some parts are most strident in wanting to come out to the outside world; others would rather remain in hiding for all of eternity. From one moment to the next, I hardly know myself if my disclosure of the “others” is one sentence away, or something I’ll carry with me to my grave.
It’s all rather exhausting, really. I’d like to spend the rest of my days on earth shedding secrets like old, threadbare garments which never fit right to begin with (see how I’m forever tripping myself up in their hems!)
I’m not only exhausted by this should I or shouldn’t I tell–quite frankly, it gets boring after awhile. So for today at least, I think I’ll focus on other things, such as the fun of my 3 year old granddaughter and I spotting our favorite orange and black butterfly, which we’ve dubbed Mabel Magillacuddy, or savoring thoughts of my yet unborn granddaughter, due on my birthday. The rest can wait; today is all I have, and I’m gifting myself for the next 24 hours with a bit of grace. Today, I’ve decided, it’s enough just to be—doofus or not.
I’m adding the following as a kind of P.S. to the above post…it’s something I wrote many years ago, before my DID diagnosis, and just now stumbled across. It’s always interesting to me to discover in my writings during my BD (before diagnosis) days little clues to the esoteric struggles of a multiple:
“I have a hard time conveying what I mean in spoken words. Somehow the tone and inflection come out all wrong, phony sounding. ‘Oh thank you,’ I might say, upon unwrapping a truly appreciated gift, only to hear it echo insincerely in my ears, at which point I broaden my smile to convince of my heartfelt sincerity. But even I can sense it’s more of a grimace than anything remotely resembling a smile, and panic deepens.
‘I’ve always wanted one,’ I say, my voice loud and falsely bright. Overkill. You id, I tell myeslf, all the while maintaining my smile/grimace. Shut up, just shut the hell up!”