I wish someone had posted this sign for me at the doctor’s today! When I went into the little room to have blood work done, the counter they had me rest my arm on was made of the same gold flecked Formica used in the kitchen and bathroom of my childhood home. Bad enough to have blood drawn; glancing at the Formica brought Thicket to the surface–poor Thicket who is perpetually like a deer caught in headlights. Closing my eyes did nothing to dispel the wave of memories which washed over me. All I could do was assure my parts that we would get through this, that this wasn’t our childhood home, scene of so many humiliations and assaults.
Driving home was difficult. My concentration level was low, and I couldn’t help pondering this legacy of mine, and of so many who have gone through the same torments and shame and who battle, as I do, on a daily or minute-by-minute basis, with its aftermath.
Pointless to wonder, when will it end? How futile wasting mental and emotional energy on such musings, for they lead nowhere but to a deeper level of despair. All I have is today, and the tiny victories I might win in my stubborn battle to survive. Not screaming at the doctor’s office is, I suppose, one such minor victory. I try to console myself with these kinds of thoughts, because the alternative is just too horrible to contemplate. Good, I tell myself with not a little trace of sarcasm, you didn’t freak out in public (not outwardly at least.) Such a well-behaved multiple you’ve become. No pounding on windows and breaking glass for you, no-siree! No untoward behavior in any way which might make others look at you funny, or cause them discomfort. We wouldn’t want to cause discomfort, now would we?
You’ll have to pardon the sarcasm, for it helps me survive. And on that sarcastic note, I will now leave you with my rendition of My Childhood, Tis of Thee:
My childhood, tis of thee
land of hypocrisy,
of thee I sing.
Land where my selfhood died
Land of my abuser’s pride.
I’ve now been multipled:
let oppression ring!