Funnygal, my resident comedienne, is missing in action. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t realize this until yesterday. Recently another part, with whom I’m not acquainted, has been appearing, especially when I’m around my cousin. Because she laughs so much, I just assumed it was Funnygal. But the major difference between these two parts is that, while Funnygal is capable of creating her own humor, this unknown part simply responds to someone else’s humor. She laughs and laughs, and I feel the physical act of her laughter way down in my diaphragm. She’s fun for a few laughs, but I miss Funnygal. I need her original humor. She has a certain depth to her—a deep compassion intermingled with the humor—which I miss.
Funnygal has a twin. They couldn’t be more opposites, for where FG is full of pleasant good humor, and lots of laughs, her twin is quiet, dreamy and elegant. She’s the one with good, understated taste. She’s ignorant of the fact that this body is no longer virginal, and is stuck at the age of 13, wistfully longing for her Knight in Shining Armor. Her naivete’ greatly concerns me. She’s the one who painted my room pink, the one still waiting for her daddy to come and whisk her away from her lonely exile in suburbia.
Oh, multiplicity is a never-ending puzzle of sorts, a constant drain on one’s mental and emotional energy. I never have everything figured out! I never know who all my parts are, or what they need at any given time. Yesterday, drifting off into sleep, I flashed on my first pair of bell-bottoms back in the early 60’s. I’ve no idea why that image came to me, but it set up a deep groaning throughout the kingdom of my body. I know I got those bell-bottoms the year I turned 15, which was the year that I finally re-connected with my biological father, and left the house of incest for good. But what that one pair of pants has to do with anything, I don’t know.
I also haven’t a clue as to why I want to die when I hear certain music, or why the memory of displaying a cow skull on my bedroom wall when I was a kid stirs in me a fierce wistfulness. I will never be able to get a whiff of Old Spice aftershave without wanting to vomit, or having to dissociate. Why does it hurt so much when my sons say they love me? Shouldn’t that be a good thing?
Puzzle pieces scattered everywhere, and I such a klutz at finding and fitting them together. My parts will have to bear with me. I am slow of understanding my multiplicity. But they already know this, and we have many more unmapped miles to go in this journey together.
(I’m slow on the uptake, but I’m getting there.)